


Burning Bridges

by SimplyLucia



Series: Vile [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Dark Take on Post-Vale SanSan, Angst, Canon Compliant, Child Death, Dark, Dubious Consent, Essos, F/M, Free Cities, Future Fic, Incommunicability, Lies, Masturbation, Open Ending, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Physical Relationship, Sandor's POV, Secret Relationship, Sense of Duty, Sequel, Tyrosh, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Elder Brother had healed Sandor Clegane’s wounds but failed to get rid of his old demons? Hiding in Tyrosh with Sansa, Sandor realizes she might want more than his protection but he’s not able to return her love and only offers her a physical relationship. </p><p>"The little bird sobs and sniffs against his collarbone, dangerously close to the war drum beats of his heart. A part of him wants to pull away and to mock her fears, while the other craves to touch and to be touched."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aloof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ADK_SanSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADK_SanSan/gifts).



> Characters belong to George R. R. Martin. My friend Underthenorthernlights beta reads this story.
> 
> This fic is rather dark and the ending - which is already written - is… open, so don’t read this if you can’t stand this sort of conclusion and make sure you read all the warnings. 
> 
> This is a continuation of 'Nobody's Woman' but as this short piece was a variation about the Blackwater night, you can read this even if you never read 'Nobody's Woman'. I published the first part of the first chapter on LJ for the SanSan Russian Roulette.

_Burn one’s bridges: intentionally cut off one's own retreat (burn a bridge one has crossed) to commit oneself to a course of action. According to tradition, Maelys the Monstrous, commander of the Golden Company, burned down the bridge between two islands of the Stepstones, so that his rearguard could not run away from the battlefield._

_Later used to mean “alienate former friends” or “estrange relatives, lovers”. Maester Eon, Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings._

* * *

Clammy and restless, his nights in Tyrosh are all alike, and the hot, hazy climate of the harbor city has little to do with it. Lying flat on his back, with but a sheet to cover his nakedness, Sandor listens to the slightest noise, goes over the tiny events of the day, to finally decide the little bird is safe there, even by daylight when he leaves their house to rent his skills and his sword. The moment he reaches that conclusion, sleep usually shuns him.

Rolling over in bed, he catches a glimpse at the gibbous moon, through the open window. He doesn’t allow Sansa to open the window of her bedchamber: there is only danger outside. When a cry coming from the next room breaks the silence, he jumps from his bed and barely puts his breeches on before grabbing a dagger and hurrying to her bedside.

There is no one in her room, except the phantoms of old foes and sad memories that leave her panting and trembling on her featherbed. At seven-and-ten, Sansa Stark has been married twice, and twice abducted from her captors; the second time has been the right one, and Tyrosh the best place to hide, he tells himself.

She whines. Kneeling, he tries to keep at bay his want for her and growls: “What is it, now?”

This seething tone and his aloofness prevents them from bonding - _all for the best._ She sees him as her hero, for he rescued her, but he’s a quick-tempered, distant savior who glares at her whenever she disobeys.

In the darkness, she sits up, face sunk in her palms, whispering about Joffrey and Littlefinger. _She’d never feel safe again._ Whatever remains of his heart melts when she takes his hand, then his arm, before pulling him close, curves crushing against his chest. Sitting on the bed, he holds her, considering suspiciously the instinct that makes him pat her back and nuzzle her hair. The little bird sobs and sniffs against his collarbone, dangerously close to the war drum beats of his heart. A part of him wants to pull away and to mock her fears, while the other craves to touch and to be touched.

Timid hands make their way around his middle and he understands what it is to be trapped. He freezes, panicked like a horse feeling the halter for the first time. Stranger can rear; can he give free rein to his anger? Does he want to rebuff her again? Tears rolling down his chest weaken his resolution. A last sob, and she begs: “Stay.”

Climbing in bed, he holds her close to shield her from her own terrors. If his strong arms dissipate her fears, the warmth seeping out of her shift lulls him like sweetsleep. He needs her to find sleep, and that realization, in his slumber, is both painful and exhilarating. Come the morning, they’ll lie in the same bed, her back against his chest, their fingers intertwined.

* * *

_Three weeks earlier_

The heat surprises them both when their ship berths the Tyroshi wharf; clad in their Westerosi clothes, accumulating layers of fabric to protect themselves from the cold that freezes landscapes in an eerie, bluish light across the Narrow Sea, they don’t expect the dazzling sun nor the suffocating heat in the Stepstones.

If he’s being honest, he didn’t expect any of this. As a boy, then as a squire, he never had occasions to travel out of Westeros; furthermore, Gerion’s disappearance, after he sailed away to find the Lannisters’ ancestral sword, has dampened his inclination to adventure. In Tyrosh, everything looks unfamiliar. _No. Strange. And exotic and…_

The look in Sansa’s blue eyes betrays her fascination and between her nervous gestures to wipe inexistent beads of sweat on her forehead, she keeps gazing at her new surroundings, marveling at the colors, at the unknown language she hears and wrinkling her nose imperceptibly at the smells of the harbor. She doesn’t need to voice out her astonishment and her curiosity: he perceives them well enough.

The little bird doesn’t lose common sense though, for she follows, staying two feet behind Sandor, never letting him outdistancing her; this way they check on Stranger in the nauseating depths of the ship’s hold, take their belongings in their cabin and disembark under the sailors’ curious eyes. This prying lot, always leering at the little bird who is, as it happens, the only woman on board and the prettiest thing these rats have seen in a while… He won’t miss them.

Once on solid ground, his major concern is to find a place where they can spend the night, before he starts looking for some fat Tyroshi merchant who needs his sword. After saddling Stranger who is now the shadow of his former self, he helps her mount the horse and threatens to leave her alone on the wharves if she doesn’t hide her face under her hood. She mumbles something about the heat but he ignores her, knowing well she never disobeys when it comes to safety. Thus, with her on horseback and him leading the way, they walk deeper into the tortuous streets, making people move out of their way and stare at them. Everytime he glances over his shoulder, he sees the little bird taking in the beards and long hair dyed in uncanny shades of blue and red, observing the strange outfits and listening to the locals jabber.

“Do you understand what they say?” she inquires, leaning forward on Stranger so that he can hear her words despite the buzzing street.

“No,” he spits. “And you’d better keep your highborn ass on the saddle and shut your mouth.”

As always, his dismissive tone puts an end to the conversation and the next time he catches a glimpse at her, she sulks, avoiding his gaze on purpose. _Suit yourself._ As long as she’s cautious, he doesn’t give a fuck about what she thinks of him.

Through narrow streets the stalls make it even less passable, they keep moving until he spots a tavern not too expensive for their purse. Sansa stubbornly looks at the stall where a woman garbles ceaselessly, waving garish fabrics and promising the earth to the cunts who are fool enough to listen to her. Sandor tugs at the reins, thus informing his companion they’re arrived. He silently takes her in his arms to dismount, then he heads to the stables where he leaves Stranger.

Inside, he sweeps the place and notices the weary looks of the few customers, most likely caused by the burns on his face. After the little bird becomes bold enough to stop hiding behind him and starts glancing around, something changes in their attitude. _She draws their attention,_ he muses, glaring at the bald, scrawny sailor who eyeballs her while licking the wine from his upper lip. All of a sudden, he announces her under his breath they can’t stay and refuses to tell her why when she asks.

Another walk to the stables, a never-ending debate with gestures and grunts in lieu of words with the stable boy and they’re wandering in the streets again. The second tavern they come in is hardly different from the first, but Sansa’s impatience and his own tiredness convince him to stay and so she collapses on the cot, while he lies down on the wooden floor, a moth-eaten blanket folded under his head. _What do we do now that we are in Essos? What do we do now?_

* * *

At dawn, before leaving, he gives her his instructions: she must not open to anyone, save the maid who received orders to bring her food and water. Sandor has no idea when he will be able to come back, not knowing if someone will hire him in the first place. He might be gone for one day or for three.

As her watery blue eyes fix him, his tone becomes more cutting than ever - a reaction, almost a reflex he has developed over the last two months, since their journey began. The sweeter the little bird is, the more aloof he sounds, pursing his lips with something akin to disgust. Sansa seems to lay blame on his rudeness and wipes a tear away, staring at the exact spot where he slept.

He hardly softens when he cups her chin. “And if I don’t come back within a week, take the gold that is left and head to Meeren. The journey is dangerous, but I heard rumors saying your first husband, the Imp, had become Queen Daenerys’ advisor. He might help you.”

She nods, but her jaw tenses under his fingers as if she was fighting back tears again. “You don’t even speak Valyrian…”

“If I don’t come back, take care of Stranger. Do not sell him unless you can’t do otherwise. Be good with him for me, will you?”

Her blue gaze could undermine his resolve as she nods again, silently begging him not to leave her alone. A last glance at her and he walks away, not knowing when or if he will come back.

* * *

The first day is a complete waste of time, Sandor ignoring where sellswords gather to find whoever needs their skills. He comes back to the tavern to sleep a handful of hours before wandering another day in Tyrosh. At the end of that second day, he gets somewhat accustomed to the sun and to the odd sounds coming from the locals’ mouth, recognizing some words he learned as a boy with a maester and some the little bird taught him while they crossed the Narrow Sea. And finally, he met Collio Cletis.

Collio Cletis has a taste for uncommon things: the forked beard, dyed in a deep shade of green, might blend in the local culture, but he boasts about his Westerosi roots and he seems to take an immense pleasure in speaking the Common Tongue under the incredulous gaze of the other Tyroshi. He’s as mannered as all the rich Tyroshi men Sandor met in two days, but he’s the only one who carries a Westerosi dagger tucked into his silken belt, and above all he’s the first to express so much interest in Sandor’s skills.

To his questions about his past, Sandor answers evasively, only giving his first name and stating he’s an experienced master-at-arms. Collio Cletis keeps sizing him up with a faint smile and waddles around him: Sandor can tell the sword he carries across his back impresses the merchant. Then he asks Sandor to show him his skills; among all the sellswords around him, Sandor picks a Pentoshi as tall as him but even more muscular. The sellsword grins smugly, seeing this mock-fight as an chance to cause a sensation. When the man bites the dust though, Sandor sees in his eyes how humiliated he is; he then turns to Collio Cletis and understands the merchant wants him and no one else.

Like everything in this foreign world, the negotiation surprises him. Collio Cletis invites him in his mansion; Sandor follows the merchant’s palanquin in the moonlight, guided by a young slave who holds a lantern. The sight of the opulent-looking manse on the city’s heights would delight the little bird. Collio Cletis offers him some wine and they resume their bargaining: the merchant wants someone who protects him during the day, but who also teaches swordplay to his eldest son. When Cletis says he will have his own bedchamber under his roof, Sandor puts a halt to the rich man’s monologue. He’d do any task the merchant assigns him if only he can leave at night. Cletis gives him the strangest look and caresses his green beard for a moment. “Why?”

 _Because you’re not the only person I need to protect._ “I have my reasons.”

Discussing the wages takes another two hours and Sandor imagines the little bird frightened in her bed, alone among strangers who talk loud and whose laughter shakes the thin walls of the tavern where she waits for him. Once satisfied about his wages, Sandor asks if his host knows where he can find a house with stables.

“I just offered you to stay under my roof. I know you Westerosi are sometimes as crazy about your horses as the Dothrakis, but I also have room in my own stables.”

As Sandor remains silent, Cletis sighs. “Well I guess one of my servants can help you finding a house nearby…” The merchant’s slaves keep pouring wine in Sandor’s cup and he spends the rest of the night listening to his talkative host.

At dawn, Cletis informs Sandor he will accompany him in the harbor and in some of his customers’ houses, then he tells him to get some rest because they will depart one hour later and he waddles away. Sandor lies down on the cushions, asking himself when do these foreigners sleep.

* * *

Wine and fatigue make his day never-ending: hours stretch until he comes back to Cletis’ mansion and meets the servant who searched for a house for him. The first two they visit don’t look safe enough to protect the little bird. The third house, with its high walls and window guards, is much more to Sandor’s liking. He doesn’t bargain the rent asked by the owner and he walks back to the tavern at dusk.

A timid yet relieved bird welcomes him in the bedroom. What did he see? Did someone hire him? Where will they live? To all these questions, Sandor answers he’ll tell her everything later, that he needs to sleep first. He thus collapses on the only bed with his clothes on, too tired to bother about propriety, and when the little bird crawls in between the sheets, finding just enough room to lie beside him, he tells himself this is the first and final night they spend in the same bed.

  
He’s so wrong.


	2. Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments when her chirping drives him mad, when he wants to silence her with a hungry kiss, when he dies to tell her the truth about what he really wants, but he knows better than that. His stay at the Quiet Isle didn’t cool the hot blood that courses in his veins - far from it - yet he will stick to the plan they agreed on in the Vale: protecting her and making sure she’ll go back to Winterfell safely. What will happen afterward… He doesn’t want to think about it and he pours more wine in his cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend Underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter.
> 
> This story’s title comes from Johnny Cash’s song ‘For the Good Times’. If you intend to break your heart just by listening to a song, ‘For the Good Times’ is a perfect choice.
> 
> Your kudos/comments were much appreciated. If you enjoy this story, let me know!

He leaves her one more day alone in the tavern before they move to their new house.

The house may be small, it has high walls and behind a thick door, the little bird will be safe. The stables located at the back of the house are exiguous too, yet large enough for one horse, even for a huge beast like Stranger. At the center of the house, a tiny, quiet courtyard with a well draws Sansa’s attention for a while, before he leads her to the kitchens.

“You’ll have a servant,” he announces, feeling suddenly munificent as she walks out of the pantry and gazes at the hearth. As strange as it seems, something has budded inside him when they left the tavern to come here. _Pride,_ his instinct tells him, although he doesn’t know why in the Seven Hells he would feel proud: he found a house for her and his sword will pay for it, but he remains a dog and he’d better not forget that.

“A servant? Why?” she asks. “Why can’t I-”

A mere shake of the head cuts her off. “You will have a servant. You’re the Stark of Winterfell, you don’t empty chamber pots.”

“The Stark of Winterfell…” she trails off, visibly uncomfortable. “The Stark of Winterfell lives in Winterfell and rules the North, I don’t.”

He awkwardly pats her shoulder and motions her out of the kitchen. “You will, when the time comes,” he says, ignoring the disbelief in her eyes. “I promise, you will.”

The adjoining room is a long rectangle overlooking both the courtyard and the street, filled with the afternoon sun. The owner has left a long table and folding seats there. “This could be your solar,” he suggests, not knowing if he can seriously call ‘solar’ a room he can cross in four strides. “If you want,” he adds, trying to read her expression.

“We will have supper here.” After a short moment of hesitation, she looks pleased and she sashays to the nearest window. “Why these window guards?” she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“Safety. This place is not as dangerous as Westeros for you, but it doesn’t mean you can come and go as you please. You ought to stay here when I’m outside and you’re not going anywhere unless I come with you.”

“Why window guards?” She repeats, and frowns at the thick bars preventing her from leaning out of the window.

“Your enemies could try anything. Did you know King Robert wanted the Targaryen girl dead and sent orders across the Narrow Sea to have her murdered?”

All of a sudden, she looks anxious. “I thought-” Whatever she thought is foolish if she believed nothing can happen to her in Tyrosh.

“This is why you need a servant: I can’t leave you alone in this house, little bird.” She nods, seemingly agreeing with him, but he never knows what’s going on in her pretty little head. “Want to see the bedrooms?” he goes on, trying to cheer her up.

She almost runs upstairs and a stupid smile pulls up the corners of his lips because for the first time in weeks she looks _excited_ about something. Upstairs, there are only two large bedrooms and a cubby-hole. He sees her stepping in the first bedroom, taking in the window guard and walking out. Once in the other bedroom, she sighs with contentment when she notices the featherbed and marvels at the large window framed with small columns overlooking the street. When she turns around to look at him, it’s not the Stark of Winterfell he sees but the starry-eyed little girl who was thrilled to live in the Red Keep, before things got out of hand. “I want this room,” she says. The little bird is all smiles, convinced he can’t refuse her anything.

Sandor shakes his head. “If you take this bedroom, you’ll spend so much time by this window everyone will know what you look like by the end of the sennight and that is fucking dangerous. Your room is the one with window guards. With a view on the courtyard,” he adds, in a poor attempt to insist on the other’s room advantages.

She shrugs but the harm is done: her smile has vanished. “Fine,” she answers, picking up her skirts.

“You can have the bed, though. It’s larger and more comfortable than the other one.” He loathes his tone, hasty, almost apologetical, but at this moment her frustrated look is too much for him. His fists clench by his sides. _I’m such a pathetic asshole sometimes._

“I don’t want it. I wanted the window.” She brushes past him, regal despite her disappointment and he closes his eyes. _This is the right thing to do. No matter what she thinks, this is right._

“Do you want to see the roof?” He inquires, making an effort not to shout at her. His every move must exude anger, for she recoils when he takes a step forward, following her out of the room she wanted so much. There’s another flight of stairs behind her, leading to the flat roof; she glances at it over her shoulder, scrutinizes the trapdoor hiding the roof and the cloudless sky above.

“I wager that the view on Tyrosh is unobstructed out there but... I can’t spend too much time on the roof or else people will notice my presence,” she hisses. “Am I not right?”

Without waiting for his answer she hastens downstairs, leaving him alone with his rage, his worries about her safety and his broken dreams of a little bird delighted by the house he has chosen for her.

* * *

The servant he finds is an old slave woman, much shorter than Sansa; she’s pot-bellied with spindly arms and legs, and it gives her a strange appearance. Her sickly look due to her olive complexion allowed him to haggle over her price with the slave trader. Her main quality is not in her looks nor in her muscles: she speaks the Common Tongue.

If he’s honest, she _jabbers_ the Common Tongue and Sandor doubts he can ever have a proper conversation with her, but she seems to understand what he says and it’s better than nothing. He even hopes the little bird will learn how to speak bits of Valyrian with this old woman who trots about behind him on their way back home. _Could be useful for her._

Of course, the little bird’s first question is about her name; she even makes a point of honor to address the servant in Valyrian. It makes him roll his eyes and it surprises the old woman who considers suspiciously this girl clad in thick Westerosi clothes fumbling through Valyrian.

“Girri, my lady,” she replies, using the Common Tongue. “My lady chooses another name… if my lady wants.”

“Girri is a beautiful name.”

Sandor needs to give the old woman his instructions about safety; he doesn’t doubt he’ll make himself understood, if he chooses the right tone or the right hand gestures. As he doesn’t want Sansa to interfere while he lectures the servant about her new mistress’ protection, he sends the girl away, perhaps more rudely than he intended, on the evidence of her furious gaze.

This is the way things have been between them for a while; when she’s enthusiastic about something he dampens her spirits almost by accident and he fails dismally whenever he tries to put a smile on her face. _That’s not why we’re here though. I should bloody remember it. She came to Tyrosh to wait until the North is safe again and I’m only here to protect her, nothing else._ He bites his tongue and soon the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, making him all the more seething and threatening when he looks down at the old servant.

* * *

Whether she holds his rudeness against him or not, Sansa doesn’t show it and her thoughtfulness surprises him when he comes back home, night after night. Somehow she remembers what kind of dishes he enjoyed back in King’s Landing and he believes she asks the servant to buy only his favorite food from the market place.

A flagon of wine awaits him every night, and although the little bird is no expert, he finds more often than not, sour red in his cup. _So she remembers…She remembers my wine-induced tirades about sour red and women._ If she does, if their encounters in the Red Keep still haunt her as much as they haunt him, she doesn’t let it show and she behaves like a perfect lady, always concerned about his well-being. Did he sleep well? How was his day? Does he want more stew? More wine mayhap?

There are moments when her chirping drives him mad, when he wants to silence her with a hungry kiss, when he dies to tell her the truth about what he really wants, but he knows better than that. His stay at the Quiet Isle didn’t cool the hot blood that courses in his veins - far from it - yet he will stick to the plan they agreed on in the Vale: protecting her and making sure she’ll go back to Winterfell safely. What will happen afterward… He doesn’t want to think about it and he pours more wine in his cup.

There’s one thing she insists on, during the first days they spend in their house: she needs new clothes and so does he. She has her ways to coax people to do something and he could easily pander to her every whim, if he had not decided otherwise. When he tells the little bird that no, it’s not too late to walk to the draper’s shop, her childish smile is so infectious he asks himself why he doesn’t oblige her more often and the realization he’d do anything to put a smile on her face is almost painful - because he knows it’s not sensible.

Collio Cletis’ gold will be wisely spent, according to the little bird: linen for his new tunics and for her dresses, perhaps some silk, if it’s not too expensive. As usual, he ruins the moment by reminding her she needs to hide herself under her cloak, now ragged and much too heavy for the weather, like the rest of their clothes.

Despite his orders to keep her hood up, the little bird cranes her neck to look at the facades of the houses as they walk to the draper’s shop, she observes her surroundings and can’t help looking at the passers-by, chatting and laughing as they go back home at sunset; she even smiles at the children who run barefoot on the cobblestones. After a long day following Collio Cletis in the streets of Tyrosh, he’d like to get it over with, yet he finds himself surprisingly patient with her; she looks like she’s been starved from fresh air. Remembering she never was free to come and go since the day she left the North, he sighs and stays next to her when she stops again, admiring the stall full of seed beads and trinkets.

“Little bird, the draper’s shop will close soon.” This remark, uttered in hushed tones, is enough to make her resume her walk, but not to keep her quiet. Why do these strange priests scatter saffron in the wind? The sight of the old men clad in long yellow robes, scattering the yellow spice fascinates her and she looks almost disappointed when he answers bluntly he doesn’t know and he doesn’t give a rat’s ass. He feels like a fool and when another question escapes her lips - why do two dozen women sing and lament around a catafalque? - he racks his brains to find a satisfying answer. It must be the local way to honor their dead, like the Tully’s used funeral pyre boats when one of them died. At the mention of her mother’s family, Sansa flinches and he curses inwardly; after a few heartbeats though, she admits politely he must be right.

The draper’s shop displays so many fabrics with vivid colors he feels giddy and he stays in the background, observing her and the servile merchant who owns the place. A ghost of a smile appears on his face when he realizes she makes herself understood quite well. When will his little bird be ready to spread her wings? The notion makes his shoulders sag and he feels a surge of anger at the unavoidable prospect of her leaving. That’s when she calls him softly to ask his advice on the fabric. Does he prefer the pale blue or the green one? He walks over to her and feels the linen fabric before answering the blue is a better choice. It’s softer, as far as his calloused hands can tell, and he only wants soft things to touch her skin.

She listens to him, of course, smiling like a proper little lady. “I saw what you did,” she whispers to him while the draper cuts a good length of blue fabric. “You chose it because of the way it felt under your fingers, not because of the color.”

He shrugs. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind, then,” he replies, gruff as ever.

“Certainly not. You made a good choice.”

There’s something in her eyes he can’t quite place, something that makes his breathing quicker and his stare heavier as he rasps: “Tell him you want some silk.” _Might as well offer her the softest thing there is._

“It’s expensive.” She shakes her head vehemently.

“My gold, my decision. How do these barbarians say ‘silk’?”

The little bird rolls her eyes. “We are the only barbarians here.” She nonetheless turns to the draper and asks for some silk in Valyrian - adding she doesn’t want something expensive, if he’s not mistaken.

He mindlessly touches the nearest roll of fabric and suddenly he remembers something that happened on their way to Gulltown, before sailing to Essos. They barely stopped after he had rescued her, but they spent one night in a barn by the river where Sansa insisted on changing her clothes and washing the dirty ones she had worn since their escape. Her dress and the shift she wore underneath were drying by the fire he had made. Sansa was nowhere to be seen, probably hiding behind some bush to do her business. He barely knew what he was doing when he inched closer to her shift and felt the still damp fabric, running his fingers on the bare thread. It wasn’t enough though; he buried his face in it, kissing the neckline then, further down, the fabric that hid her breasts. It had felt like satisfying a primal need, like eating when he was ravenous and at the same time, when he pulled away the shift as if the fabric _burnt_ him, he realized he had never been close enough to a woman to watch her clothes drying. Before, when he touched a woman’s clothes it was a whore’s petticoat and he hastily hitched it up to fuck her. _How bloody different this is._

Once she has chosen a light pink silk, it’s his turn, or so she says: they walk back to stall where the draper keeps his best linen fabrics and when he says he wants some white fabric, she asks him which one, a question that baffles him. _White is white. Or did I fucking miss something?_

“No, no,” she explains, after the draper has piteously tried to sing the praises of the goods he sells in the Common Tongue. “You have to choose between white, ivory and eggshell. Cream-white mayhap.” 

“Bugger your ivory and your eggshell. Choose for me.” His words surprise her, and she even blushes under his scrutiny. She spends the next minutes trying to figure out what shade of white is best _for his complexion_ and it sounds so absurd he could slap his knees if she didn’t brush his jaw every time she places a roll of fabric next to his face; she’s so close to him it’s both thrilling and almost painful. Sandor wonders if the draper has noticed the way he looks at her all the while, and when she decides his new tunics will be made of ivory linen, he doesn’t know if he should be frustrated or relieved this is over.

The sky is purple when they leave and she thanks him profusely, not like she would have done in King’s Landing, but with such an infectious cheerfulness he can’t help laughing. On their way home, she stops again every thirty feet and she would stop even more often if the men and women who sell food and trinkets in the streets were not already packing up. The smell of lemon coming from a stall distracts her and makes him stop in his tracks. The woman behind it doesn’t sell lemon cakes unfortunately, but some unidentified lemon-flavored confectionery; amused by the look on her face, he buys a cornet of strange yellow cubes for her.

_I treat her like a child,_ he muses, looking at her while she alternatively smiles and winces; whatever these yellow cubes are, he understands their acid taste surprises her after two months of stale bread and goat cheese. At this point, he can’t tell if treating her like a child is good or bad; it may be his one and only choice if he doesn’t want to spend his time yelling at her, if he decides to show her a little affection.

The realization dawns upon him as he closes the heavy door of their house behind them. _If I ever start considering her like a woman, she’ll be the death of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Some of the customs described here (the priests scattering saffron, the mourners) are freely inspired by the oriental customs during Antiquity described by french novelist Laurent Godé in ‘Pour seul Cortège’. If you’re French or if you visited France you might have recognized the yellow cubes Sansa eats at the end of this update: this confectionery looks a lot like berlingots, a speciality from my hometown, Nantes.


	3. Obtrusive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In two strides, he’s towering above her, a snigger on his face. She clutches her book, as if to prevent him from seeing what she was reading. Once more, the movement of her chest - up and down, up and down - mesmerizes him and for a moment he forgets why he jumped on his feet and why he’s glaring at her. Then he remembers. The book. The buggering knights.
> 
> “You know I read this book too? A long time ago, so I don’t remember shit. How knightly is this, hmm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Underthenorthernlights: thank you, dear!
> 
> This is when this story becomes darker.  
> Warning for language and a discussion about non-con/dub-con. If this topic makes you feel uncomfortable, please don’t read what follows.

It is a mystery for him: why wake up at dawn when she could sleep? Why break her fast with him then stuff a bag with bread, sheep milk cheese, salted meat? She never forgets to add a wineskin and her thoughtfulness confuses him too. At noon, when the relentless heat parches Collio Cletis’ sellswords, he almost taunts them by retrieving food and wine from his bag. He glares at them to prevent any question but it’s only a matter of time before one of these pricks asks who cossets him.

It seems the little bird doesn't notice it takes an hour or two before he’s completely awake, nor that nobody should talk to him during this time unless they wish he rearranged their face. No matter how gruff his answers are, no matter how broody he is, with his nothing less than comely face hidden behind dark hair, she keeps humming and talking softly: it only makes him more miserable than he already is.

This morning, before leaving, he sees her going to her solar, taking scissors and beginning to cut the blue linen fabric they bought at the draper’s shop the day before.

“What in Seven Hells are you doing?” he growls from the doorway.

“I really need this new dress,” she explains, her eyes on the fabric. For some reason he can’t explain, her attitude infuriates him, as if her gaze set on the blue linen while he’s talking to her was both a provocation and an insult.

“The servant can do it.” There’s enough exasperation in his tone to make her look at him. _At last._

“I’m better with needles than Girri is.”

“Why have a servant, if she doesn’t sew your clothes?”

“I never asked for a servant in the first place,” she retorts. “Besides, she has other things to do... and for your information, her name is Girri.”

This is one of the details that makes his blood boil: she keeps calling their servant ‘Girri’ and she takes umbrage if he calls her something else. The little bird must suspect he despises the servant, yet she’s the one who judges him on mere intent. Sandor curses under his breath, but he can tell she hears him by the way her back stiffens. _You still see a vile dog who barks and bites when you look at me, don’t you?_

The solar might be already suffocating in the first hours of the day, the silence between them is cold and her gaze frosty as she puts down the scissors.

“I thought playing the role of Littlefinger's bastard had taught you a thing or two.” He’s determined to root out the evil.

“Don’t you dare talk about Lord Baelish!” The rage her tone conveys makes him snort. _She’s grown talons._

Ignoring her protestation, he steps forward. “Thought he had taught you to prepare for the day you would be the Stark of Winterfell.” Another step and only two feet of space separate them. He can see she wears no shift underneath her dress and he can’t help noticing how her chest rises and falls. Lust is something dangerous and no matter what the Elder Brother preached on Quiet Isle, he doesn’t know how to handle it without being cruel and dismissive.

“Why did I give you these bloody books, girl? I didn’t buy them so that they could gather dust, I bought them so that you’ll study to become a good ruler. You have a servant so that you can learn instead of cooking and sewing!”

She rolls her eyes. “My great-uncle-”

Seething as ever, he cuts her off: “You think he’s alive? You like the idea of someone older, making decisions, taking drastic action when you can’t decide, getting their hands dirty while you're in your solar with your pretty needlework? When are you going to wake up? The Blackfish might be dead! And assuming he’s alive and goes to Winterfell, who says he’ll agree on making decisions on your behalf? The North is _yours_ , whether you like it or not and you will rule it, for the Boltons won’t stay in Winterfell forever!”

Her face is red and she fights back tears. Trembling in front of him, she holds his gaze but he knows for sure she’ll sob as soon as he’ll show a clean pair of heels.

“You pray for your lord father and for your lady mother, as if your gods - bugger them, the old and the new! - could bring your parents back but you won’t do the only thing they’d like to see you do had worms not eaten their eyes by now: do your duty and be worthy of your father’s name!”    

The words are too unfamiliar to roll off his tongue - what does a dog know about honor or duty? He notices how she frowns at him, yet he made a decision the day he left Quiet Isle. _Find her. Keep her safe. Bring her back to Winterfell where she’ll be the new Warden of the North._ The Elder Brother said he would redeem himself by doing so, but what’s redemption to a man still unconverted after a long stay amongst penitents? There’s no redemption for the likes of him because there are no gods, only nothingness after one is dead. He selfishly wants to have one good thing to remember the day he’ll close his eyes forever and this thing will be the role he plays in the restoration of House Stark.

“Study,” he says, giving her a faint scowl. “You agreed to this when we left the Vale: I protect you, I take you back to Winterfell. You obey.” What kind of reward do I want from her? During their journey, she asked him dozens of time what he expected from this arrangement and he never replied; as he stares her down, he realizes Sansa never dared ask since they arrived here. He wishes she just forgets about it.

Eyes closed, she exhales, visibly making an effort to bite back a cutting response. It nevertheless comes, quiet but merciless. “You have no right to talk about my lord father-”

“My house, my rules,” he rasps. “As long as you live here, you’ll obey when I tell you to study instead of doing some bloody needlework.”

Her eyes fall to the blue fabric that looks rumpled on the table. He wins, yet his victory has a bitter taste, that of the tears rolling down her cheeks and falling on the linen. “I will read the books,” she mutters. Beyond outward docility, there’s something he can’t quite place at first. He recognizes suppressed anger in her tense jaw and in her knuckles going white. _This is only the beginning. We’re not done._

He storms out of the solar, out of the house, far from this girl he doesn’t understand.

* * *

She reads her books and she makes a point of telling him, night after night, what she learned about battles or about the way the Starks ruled the North. Today, exhausted by a long stay under the sun of Tyrosh, he listens to her distractedly, wondering if she annoys him with books because he yelled at her three days before. _Or is there another reason? What does she bloody have in the back of her mind?_

They are in what they call the solar, Sansa demurely standing by the window while he’s sitting on a folding seat, his legs open, a cup of wine in his hand. She goes on with her lecture of the North, like a girl coaxing her septa by showing an unusual interest for her lessons. _I’m no fool, though._ The wine tastes good under his tongue even though he watered it - he can’t get drunk when he’s near her - and his mind soon wanders everywhere but in the Northern forests she’s talking about. Sandor almost jumps when she slaps her book shut: by a strange role reversal, she looks almost severe the second she catches him daydreaming.

“You read the books,” he states, regaining his composure. “Good. You finally listened to me.”

Her blue stare disconcerts him. She remains silent for a while, then walks to the chest. Sandor wants to ask what she’s looking for but he knows better than that: he pretends to ignore her instead. When she finally plants herself in front of him, she holds out a folded tunic and he recognizes the linen she chose for him at the draper’s shop.

“Could you please try this on? I wish to know if it suits you or if it needs alterations.” Her tone is civil, though curt. She almost pouts now and that’s the kind of thing that makes him want her more, inevitably.

“If it pleases my lady,” he mocks.

After a short while he pushes himself from his seat, raises to his full height - a gesture that makes her inch back - and he pulls his old woolen tunic over his head. _You didn’t foresee this, did you?_ He knows what she thinks: she expected him to change clothes upstairs and his demeanor scandalizes her. The little bird swallows hard and makes an effort not to gape at him. He might smell of sweat after a whole day protecting Collio Cletis but he bloody knows what he looks like in the eyes of a seven-and-ten girl: muscled, impressive. _That, and the first shirtless man she seen since the prick she married, a lordling named Harrold Hardyng, died._ The half-naked slaves she can see through the windows don’t count, or so he tells himself.

In King’s Landing, he used to yell at her because she didn’t look at him straight in the eyes; now she seems unable to hold his stare for a whole different reason and he secretly rejoices, before remembering how dangerous it is. _Bugger me._

With reluctance, he slips on the new tunic; he’s amazed to read the same reluctance on her pretty face when the fabric conceals his hairy torso. It feels soft on his skin and fresh and pleasant after days sweating in his woolen tunic that stuck to his back under the Tyroshi sun.

“So what do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms a little.

She swallows hard again and nods silently. _For all these years I wondered how to silence her when she chirps, not knowing all it took was a bare-chested man._

“The serv- Girri is not a bad sewer, after all,” he adds.

Sansa shakes her head. “Girri didn’t sew your tunic. I did.” As soon as he opens his mouth, she goes on: “I read the books and I sewed this on my spare time so you can’t possibly chide me.”

Still… why sew his tunic? To make him feel bad, to make a statement? Mayhap she wants to prove to him he can’t control her doings. Leaving him with questions churning in his head, she walks to the kitchen and talks with the servant about supper; she comes back, mutters something about the fish stew being almost ready and she informs Sandor she’s going upstairs to change clothes. He shrugs at that. Change clothes? As if they still were in the Red Keep and a different dress was mandatory to have supper. _Bloody ridiculous._ He’d like to be witty enough to mock her highborn whims and her fantasies of greatness, but his words flee him and he just looks at her back as she picks up the skirts of her ragged Westerosi dress.

To stave off boredom, he observes the comings and goings of the servant between the kitchen and solar; the old woman lights more candles, sets the table and finally glances at the staircase as if she expected something to happen. Sandor chortles, amused to see Sansa’s delusions of grandeur rub off on the woman he bought at the slave market; when the servant spins on her heels to glare at him, he bursts out laughing. _What do you think, crone? That we’re at court? That your fish stew will suddenly turn into some lamprey cream soup? Wake up, we live in Essos, we’re nobody here…_ He taunts her, giving her his best lopsided smile until she retreats to the kitchens.

Sandor pours more watered wine in his cup and contemplates lecturing Sansa about misplaced pride when her footsteps resonate in the staircase; he turns around in time to see her make her entrance.

He could drop his cup if he didn’t hold it so tight his knuckles are white, or curse under his breath if all the swear words he knows weren’t caught in his throat, for what he sees dumbfounds him. _Bugger me, that’s what she meant by ‘I need a new dress’._

It’s not that the new, pale blue dress makes her pretty - with a new gown or a ragged one, she is a beauty - it’s not that she paid more attention to her hair - a simple braid drawn over her shoulder. At the draper’s shop, he thought she wanted a Westerosi dress sewn in a light fabric, something resembling the gowns she wore in King’s Landing, although less ostentatious. _How could he guess she would ask the servant for a Tyroshi dress?_

The blueish hem brushes the floor; the creases draw thin lines on the skirt, converging towards the waist, fit snugly in a broad leather belt. Higher, the fabric conceals her tits and her cleavage but exposes her arms and shoulders, reminding him of the dresses worn by some servants in the Red Keep. A single glance at her chest that rises and falls under the blue fabric makes him half-hard. _Seven buggering hells._

Sansa tilts her head as if she silently asked his opinion. “You’re not going anywhere in this dress, girl.”

“You keep saying I’m not going anywhere since we arrived,” she counters, unimpressed. She walks around the table to sit at her favorite place, opposite the large window, showing him her back in the process: the fabric hides her spine from top to bottom but reveals her shoulder blades. _Fuck._

“Looks like a shift.” He pauses, then corrects himself, detaching every syllable: “No. That is not true.” He snorts. “You wore shifts that were less revealing in the capital.”

“Well, this is what Tyroshi women wear.”

“It’s true you spend so much time looking through the window instead of studying you know what these wenches wear. Do you intend to dye your hair blue too? Please tell me before doing it, so that I can... prepare myself.”

She holds his stare as he sits down. “I’ll gladly dye my hair blue if you dye yours. It didn’t escape your attention men dye their hair in Essos.”

“Because having blue hair looks so much civilized. What I’d give to see them dying their hair and combing it like pretty little girls!”

“Girri says they look fearsome this way.”

Confounded, he chuckles as a reply. When the servant arrives with a steaming pot of fish stew, he gobbles down his food to forget his real hunger, the one that keeps him up at night.

“Why change before supper, though?” he asks all of a sudden, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Sansa daintily dabs her mouth with her napkin before answering: “Septa Mordane used to say courteousness takes many forms and paying attention to one’s appearance is one of them. It is courteous towards others and towards oneself.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit. Save your good manners for your bannermen. They might be distracted by a pretty dress.” _It takes more to distract me,_ he wants to say.

Across the table, she arches an eyebrow and when he figures out what she thinks, he’d like to take back his words. For someone who pretends being indifferent about her dress, he talks a lot about it.

* * *

The day after, it’s the same agony when he sees her in her new dress, all fresh and elegant. _Scantily clad._ After supper, they usually stay in the solar for a while, him drinking watered wine and her sitting in a corner with a book. She did not pick any book that night though. The red binding and the worn-out spine belong to one of the few items Sansa took before they ran away from the Vale. That bloody book about knights. _‘Valiant Knights, Lost Causes’_ : even the title sounds like a jest.

For a while, he keeps staring at her, noticing the look of contentment on her face once she immerses herself in a story. That blessed feeling, he experienced it too, as a child. _How long did it last? Not long._ He remembers reading with his finger pointed under each word after he got burned - it was the only thing that kept the pain away. He read that very book on his pallet but only recalls it is a collection of stories, one of them telling the tale of a mystery knight. _Nobody knows what the mystery knight looks like under his helmet._ That was one of the things he told himself, to forget his face frightened the servants and even his mother. _It was before I started pissing on knights._

Watching her while she reads, oblivious of the wars going on in Westeros, suddenly becomes insufferable and he bolts out of his seat. “Why are you reading this bullshit? Are you not done with songs about knights and fair maidens?”

“You asked me to read those books about the North and I obeyed. Can’t I read something else on my spare time?”

In two strides, he’s towering above her, a snigger on his face. She clutches her book, as if to prevent him from seeing what she was reading. Once more, the movement of her chest - _up and down, up and down_ \- mesmerizes him and for a moment he forgets why he jumped on his feet and why he’s glaring at her. Then he remembers. _The book. The buggering knights._

“You know I read this book too? A long time ago, so I don’t remember shit. How _knightly_ is this, hmm?”

The little bird swallows hard as he inches closer, bumping against her parted knees. When he bends over to take the book from her hands, she’s too frightened to dare say anything; she blushes and nervously covers her mouth with her hand when instead of shutting the book, he keeps it open at the exact page she was reading.

He certainly didn’t understand much of this story when he discovered it in Clegane’s Keep; he was too young, but now that he skims through the page, he understands why septas and maesters never recommended _‘Valiant Knights, Lost Causes’. Mayhap the little bird is not so prude after all._

“What is this story you were reading about, again?” he inquires, taking a perverse pleasure in her discomfited look.

Craning her neck to look at him, she wriggles under his scrutiny, then replies: “It tells the story of Lady Eluned and Ser Armin, but this part is a dialogue between Pearse the Bold and Thancred the Bruiser. They’re false knights. They plan to... abduct Eluned.”

A cruel laugh escapes his lips. “Do you mind if I read it aloud?” She doesn’t reply so he reads:

“ **Pearse:**

_Aye, a stolen kiss_

_Delights me more than offered lips_

_And fighting over spoils makes them_

_All the more sweet for the victor_

 

**Thancred:**

_Thus, whilst in the throes of passion_

_Plunder over gift you shall always favor_

 

**Pearse:**

_Unless he steals it, a lover never finds joy._

_Unless you force her, a foolish woman will not give you her love.”_

 

Satisfied, he closes the book and gazes at her. Sansa is sitting bolt upright, her fingers clutching the armrests, her cheeks crimson. She can hardly hold his stare; her eyes drift away from time to time then come back to his face.

“It makes you blush,” he states, without regard to her dignity. “Do you agree with this?”

“Pardon?”

_Her dress barely covers her ass and she pretends she doesn’t understand my question._ “Do you agree, girl? Do you think a man who forces a woman gets more pleasure? Do you think the woman might... enjoy the situation?”

Sandor doesn’t even know what he’s doing now, planted in front of her, panting. Lust blinds him, makes him forget she was twice married against her will and probably abused. It feels like the pathetic repetition of their encounters in the Red Keep when he still was the Hound and she was the king’s betrothed. Like before, her features exude horror: only proprieties prevent her from running away.

“How could I know?” Her voice is tense as she pushes her seat backwards, then stands up keeping her distance with him. Never breaking eye contact, she walks backwards to the end of the solar, like a cornered animal.

“But would you…” he trails off, knowing well how cruel he is, yet unable to hold his tongue.

Her eyes widen. “I wish you good night.” A flash of pale blue linen on the staircase, the slamming of a door upstairs and she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt of ‘Valiant Knights, Lost Causes’ is a translation - by yours truly - of one of the first scenes of the opera Elena, by Francesco Cavalli. In this opera, Theseus and Pirithous want to abduct Helen of Sparta and they agree on the fact kidnapping a girl is much more fun than wooing her… The moment I heard this excerpt, I knew it would be in this story. I apologize if the translation is not faithful enough: Elena’s libretto is in Italian but I worked on the French translation to translate it again in English...


	4. Ditherer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She begged me to stay. I treated her like a child, I threatened her, yet she wanted me with her. But was it me she wanted? She was scared, crying, anyone could have comforted her. She would have asked the servant to stay, had she been in her room before me. She reacted out of fear, not out of affection. It wasn’t my bloody presence she wanted. Why would she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: so... Sandor muddles through his relationship with Sansa and tries to make amends in this update. The looong flashback is now over and we’re back where this story started, with Sandor and Sansa waking up after she had a nightmare. 
> 
> A huge thank you to Underthenorthernlights who beta read this chapter.  
> Thank you for reading/leaving kudos/commenting!

There’s something unusual in the air when he wakes up; a perfume, a sensation of not being in his bed yet feeling good. _At peace._ Before he opens his eyes, in the sleepy haze of the morning, he feels the softness of her shift under his fingers and her warmth seeping out of it. Then he remembers.

_She had a nightmare and I came. She asked me to stay._ Why kind of comfort does she find in a man who mocks her, shouts at her? _Two days ago, I almost asked her if she wanted a man to force himself upon her. It sounded like a bloody threat. I’m the vilest dog in Essos._ Yet she’s lying against him, perfectly still albeit awake. She slept on her side, her back to him, and as his head is propped up by his arm, he can see the flutter of her eyelashes every time she closes her eyes. Her red hair partly covers her neck, sticking to her skin by places; further down his arm has found its place in the dip of her waist. In the golden light of dawn everything looks peaceful about them but he knows peace is an illusion. He aches for her and with every moment he spends in her bed the chance his lust gets out of control increases.

Sandor bolts out of her bed as if the mere contact of her burnt him; surprised and even startled, the little bird rolls over, silently questioning him.  He turns his back to her for fear she notices the bulge in his breeches. “I- have to go,” he slurs. “Go back to sleep.”

As he doesn’t hear any reply, he glances at her around his shoulder: propped on her elbow, clad in her worn-out, long-sleeved shift, she holds his gaze, hesitating. _Did I do something wrong?_ her blue eyes seem to ask. _You don’t have time for this shit, dog,_ the voice inside his head reminds him: he walks away.

* * *

 

Taking himself in hand in the silence of his bedroom, he keeps his desire at bay - _at least for now,_ he thinks. The floorboard in front of his door creaks under his weight. He’s fully clothed, he carries his sword and his dagger, he’s a warrior again and he tells himself he’s ready to face her, if she ever has the silly idea of breaking her fast with him instead of sleeping. The wooden floor creaks again as he carefully closes his door; the thought of eating alone in the solar gives him a feeling as if there is a hole in his chest. _At the hour of the wolf she was asleep in my arms. My ugly face was buried in her hair and I was asleep too._ He shakes his head and hurries downstairs.

_Alone._ No matter how hard he tries to convince himself it’s a relief after their night in the same fucking bed, he can’t help staring at the spot where she eats. This morning, he picks at his food.

_She begged me to stay. I treated her like a child, I threatened her, yet she wanted me with her. But was it me she wanted? She was scared, crying, anyone could have comforted her. She would have asked the servant to stay, had she been in her room before me. She reacted out of fear, not out of affection. It wasn’t my bloody presence she wanted. Why would she?_

When he hears Sansa on the staircase his heart skips a beat: what can he possibly say? His gut tells him to ignore her and to mock her if she ever addresses him, but he doesn’t want to go down that path again. Why does he suddenly loathe what used to be his code of conduct? He can’t tell.

“Good morrow,” she says, smoothing the skirt of her Tyroshi dress and sitting down across from him. The old servant arrives at once. The two women exchange a few words in Valyrian, then Girri waddles back to the kitchens. Sansa’s eyes follow her until she disappears then she opens her mouth; he’s not sure he wants to hear whatever she has on her mind so he pushes himself out of his seat.

“No, wait!” she protests. She jumps on her feet and runs to him. His hand is still on the table when she places hers on it, gently squeezing his fingers. “I wanted to thank you for what you did last night, when you… comforted me. I am lucky to have you here with me.” Her voice trembles a little, but her smile is genuine and when he looks at her in the eyes, he knows for sure she’s not lying.

Unable to answer, he covers her hand with his free one. _I’ve got you,_ a silly, almost childish voice says in his head. Something changes in her expression and she hastily removes her hand, even taking a step back. There’s something akin to fear in her blue eyes as she observes him, suddenly pale and shaking. _I still frighten her._ The perverse pleasure he once took in scaring her has faded, only leaving a queasiness in his stomach. He leaves, knowing well that shy look of hers will haunt him all day.

* * *

When Collio Cletis’ steward gives him his wages, he weighs the leather purse instead of mumbling his thanks in Valyrian and he hangs his head. The steward, an old man whose bald head shines under the late afternoon sun, arches an eyebrow at his Westerosi bad manners, then he walks to the next sellsword who protects Collio Cletis.

The Tyroshi coins feel heavy in his hand and he wonders if some of the answers he needs are not here, in his palm. _There’s only one fucking way to figure out if this is the right thing to do._

He finds her in the solar, a book on her lap and a bored look on her face. After the awkwardness of their exchange this morning, none of them is bold enough to make the first move. Sandor collapses on the high back chair with a sigh. All day long, he’s been thinking about the changes that need to be done. _She has nightmares because she’s not feeling well and she’s not feeling well because she’s locked up here all day with these books. And because I’m an asshole._

He contemplates the little bird as she reads, winding her fingers in her hair, until she feels his gaze and snaps her book shut. “You must be thirsty. Do you want some wine?” _Such a perfect little lady._

He points at his cup Sansa had not spotted so far; she bites her lower lip, embarrassed by her own absent-mindedness. 

“There’s something I need to give you,” he says, standing up and motioning her towards the trestle table on which there is a small chest; that’s where he keeps their gold. The key opening the chest is hidden in a niche, behind some knickknack. He takes it and holds it out for her. Sansa’s incredulous gaze strikes him as she shyly takes the key from his hand. “Open it, girl.”

She obeys, still confused about his attitude. When she sees the gold and silver coins gleaming, she sucks in a deep breath. He takes the purse hanging from his belt and adds what he earned during the last few days: only the jingling of coins breaks the silence until he explains, answering the question she doesn’t dare ask: “People are generous in Essos.”

“It has nothing to do with generosity,” she counters. “It only means you’re talented.”

He shrugs, then swivels his hips to face her. “From now on, you’ll hold the purse strings. You’ll decide what we buy and when. When you’re the Stark of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, you’ll have more coin but… this might be a good start.”

“You forbid me to come and go as I please but I hold the purse strings? I don’t get it.” Her blatant wariness briefly irks him before he remembers how much he wants her to trust him. He knew she would raise this question; yet he’s not ready to let her wander in the streets, alone.

He sighs. “You’ll get lost...”

“If I never have a chance to walk through the streets I’ll never learn how to find my way here! I can go with Girri-”

“We’ll see. For now, she’ll buy whatever you need.” He takes a few steps away from her, then turns around and leans over her. “Buy some fabric. Pick a soft one: you need another shift by the looks of the one you wore last night,” he rasps in her ear.

Her mouth slightly ajar, Sansa looks up at him with a mix of surprise and awe as if she thinks what kind of game is he playing with her? He can’t ignore the thrill whenever she gives him this look, when she tries not to show her turmoil. _Wine, I need wine. ‘Sour red or a woman’,_ he told her, years ago. For lack of a woman, he’ll drink tonight.

* * *

The next few days are not devoid of tension, although they seem to find an understanding. Sansa jumps at every chance to remind him how badly she wants to walk through the streets and he plays for time. When imagining Sansa alone in Tyrosh, at the mercy of some lecherous sailor, he breaks into a cold sweat.

That night, Girri mumbles something about Sansa being in the ‘horse house’. _The stables? What the fuck is she doing in the stables?_ He goes to his bedroom first, removes his dirty tunic and hastily washes his face, torso and arms. Sansa always leaves a jug of fresh water and a fresh cloth in his bedroom for the moment he’ll come back. Then he hurries to the stables.

In the dim light, he sees her in front of Stranger’s stall. A mere glance at his bare chest and she ostensibly turns to Stranger. She asks: “Have you lost all the tunics I sewed for you?”

_Northern wit._ He likes it and comes closer, leaving only a few feet between them. “Said the girl who walks around in a shift.”

Stranger motions his head towards him, snorts and seemingly loses all interest for the girl who stands with her back to his master.

“This is not a shift,” she replies a bit coldly. “It’s a dress cut in the Tyroshi fashion. I try to blend in.”

_You can’t blend in. You’ll always draw attention._ “Looks like a shift.” He inches closer, eyes wandering down her back. “Almost see-through… Note that it’s fine by me.” He doesn’t even pretend he’s not leering at her when she gazes in his direction again. _You’re not even able to control yourself._ She blushes, but keeps the supercilious look that would drive any hot-blooded man mad. “You don’t know what you’re doing, girl.”

“I try to be good to him. He’s locked up all day.” _Like me,_ her blue eyes say when he catches a glimpse at her face.

“Stranger is not some pony whose mane who can plait. Never stay alone with him, you don’t know what he can do to you.”

When they lock eyes again, her lopsided smile informs him she’s not a complete fool; perhaps she is even thinking his words sound like a self-portrait. Sansa ignores him again and picks one of the plums she brought from the kitchens, most likely; she places it in the middle of her palm, like she saw him doing with crab apples in Westeros.

“Careful.” His arm brushes hers now.

As Stranger eats and nuzzles her hand, she grins, first out of provocation it seems, because she shut him up, then as the smugness vanishes he sees only her fondness for a horse who is bored to death, just like her.

Stranger licks her palm now, eliciting tiny giggles from her, until he stills the horse’s head and says: “Want to do something more daring than feeding a horse?”

As her eyes widen he asks himself what the fuck she imagines; he fumbles with the latch of Stranger’s stall, opens the door then motions her inside. Her breathing is a tad quicker and the rise and fall of her chest tells him she’s nervous. In an attempt to alleviate the tension, because his horse senses her doubts and could take advantage of it, he seizes Stranger’s head in his hands and rests his forehead against his nasal bone. _Help me impress her, old friend._ Stranger snorts and he pats his head again. _Good boy._

A handful of fresh straw will be perfect to rub and clean the animal’s coat. Stranger enjoys it - he knows his horse misses these moments now that Sandor is gone all day - and he leans into his touch when his master rubs his neck. He goes on for a minute or so, he jerks his head and catches her staring at him instead of watchinghis gestures. _Do you see something you like?_ Her eyes were settled on his upper arms and back, a heartbeat before, he’d stake his life on it, and now they drift up to his face, feigning innocence.

Sandor stops abruptly, much to Stranger’s surprise, and he turns to face her. As he expected it, she tries to hold his gaze but fails, glances at his bare chest and finally swallows painfully. Her cheeks redden and it’s with a triumphant tone he addresses her: “Twice married and you still blush like a maiden when looking at a man’s bare chest!”

“I forbid you-”

“Enough arguing. I shouldn’t have mentioned your husbands. Truce?”

She sighs: “Truce.”  

“Learn something if you want to tend to Stranger.” He hands her the straw he used as a brush and steps aside so she can stand next to Stranger’s flank; he stays behind her though, for fear she gets kicked, but deep down, he knows what he truly wants: a chance to look at her when she can’t see him, a chance to smell her hair blending with the odor of straw, now that he’s only inches from her.

A quick glance at him around her shoulder and she starts rubbing Stranger’s coat. “Harder,” he commands. “You barely touch him. You need to remove any trace of mud, girl. This way.” Before she can protest, he covers her hand with his and guides her. Her hand is fresh and tiny in his; she doesn’t remove it this time. _A dangerous path,_ he muses. He nonetheless wonders at the change in their relationship in less than a sennight; that nightmare of hers and the hours they spent in the same bed reminded him why he left Quiet Isle to find her. _I want to be with her, for as much time as I can before she goes back North. Once she’s the Stark of Winterfell, she will not have any use of a dog; she will marry and I won’t stay in the North let my balls freeze while her third lord husband beds her. Selfish reasons but a good deed still,_ he thinks.

He relishes the contact of her hand all the more as he knows it won’t last forever. _Enjoy whatever bones she throws to you, for she will be gone someday._ Her muscles relax under his palm and neither of them does anything to break the spell, until Stranger snorts and shifts.

His arms dangling, he looks down at her and his eyes linger on the delicate collarbone her dress reveals.

“Do you think Stranger likes me?” she asks him bluntly. If she wanted to ask him about his own feelings for her, she wouldn't act any differently.

He considers storming out or shouting at her again, then he laughs with embarrassment. “He doesn’t like you, girl, he loves you.” He takes a step closer; his deep voice and his stare makes her blush in the feeble light. “He had enough time to know you during our journey.” And suddenly, the urge to provoke her comes back; as if her noticing his smile, encourages him to speak. “He misses your company. That, and the pressure of your thighs against his flanks.”

Scandalized by his remark, she hisses something and she strides off to the door while his mirthless laugh fills the stables.

* * *

_I can’t keep her locked up all day._ The idea has gained ground with Sansa’s requests to walk outside and her questions on what he sees during in Tyrosh. He finally yields after coming back home earlier than usual.

“Put your cloak on. We’re going for a walk. If you want to leave this house and stroll along, you’d better know how to find your way back.” She grins excitedly at his words. “Don’t rejoice too soon, girl. If you think I’ll let you walk through the streets after dark or without carrying a dagger, you’re sorely mistaken.”

First they explore the marketplace and the streets around it because that’s the place where she’s most likely to go. Under the hood of her tattered cloak, her blue eyes shine brightly: the streets are not deserted yet, and while she admires the ocher facades in an alley near the marketplace, he notices the lustful look of the passers-by. Even hidden under a cloak, her slender figure draws their attention. _These bastards don’t need to see her face to imagine her curves and how it feels to lay with her._ When one of them starts walking towards her, stroking his blueish beard, Sandor crosses the distance between him and the little bird and grabs her wrist.

“What are you doing?” she protests.

At that, the man spits something in Valyrian, before walking away.

“He would have filled your ears with honeyed words,” Sandor barks, as she angrily frees her arm from his hand. “Lured you in his house, mayhaps.”

“Do you know what he said?” she retorts. _As if trying to understand these rats’ dialect was more important than saving your arse!_ “He said Westerosi men were filthy barbarians unable to treat their women well.”

“Congratulations,” Sandor replies bitterly, ignoring the curious gazes of a group of washerwomen carrying baskets with laundry. “You’re making astonishing progress in Valyrian.”

“That’s because I’m locked up all day! Girri is the only person I can talk to!” She glares at him, careless of the people around them, then takes a step back and briefly hides her face in her hands. “You can’t behave as if everyone here was a threat. They’re not. Perhaps you are the real threat here.”

Her last words feel like a stab, all the more so as they confirm his self-doubt. _So I’m a threat? Must be the most sensible thing she said in a while._ He chortles as she walks off, going in the same direction as the Tyroshi man. Before reaching the end of the sinuous street though, she stops mid stride; he sees her shoulders tense underneath the cloak before spotting the reason of her sudden panic. The blue-bearded man is back, with three more men and he looks anything but friendly.

_Do they want to give him a lesson or just have their way with Sansa?_ She runs back to Sandor who shoves her behind him; the sound of steel as he unsheathes his sword dampens the youngest of the blue-bearded man’s companions, he sees it in the lad’s eyes.

“What do you want?” he mutters in Valyrian. He’d gladly add some insult if he knew how to say ‘bastard’ or ‘cunt’ in Valyrian; for lack of vocabulary, he’ll stay courteous.

The blue-bearded man chuckles and moves closer, drawing a dagger.

“Be careful!” he hears behind him and it’s enough to make him pounce on the Tyroshi man. His opponent avoids his downward swing, brushes his burnt forearm with his dagger then, gaining more confidence, gets too close. Before the man can understand what’s happening, he has Sandor’s blade on his throat. Sandor pulls back the man’s long hair, forcing the Tyroshi to look up at him.

When he glances at the man’s companions, he only sees one of them jostling a beggar and running away. _Good riddance._

“So I mistreat my woman, huh?” he whispers in the Common Tongue, as his opponent silently begs him. “You have no idea what I’d do for her, you pig filth.”

“Sandor!” The little bird sounds anxious. “Enough, now. Let him go.”

He thus releases his grip on the Tyroshi; the man falls, scrambles to his feet and scurries off as the hilt of his sword meets its scabbard.

“You’re hurt!” she whispers, coming closer and pointing at the red stain that slowly gets wider on his sleeve. “We should go back home.”

“It’s a scratch you can take care of later. You wanted to see the city, I show you the city.”

The unexpected brush of her shoulder against his arms reveals how frightened she is; she would walk ten feet behind him or ahead of him moments before, now she stays close, confessing she won’t set foot in this alley again, that the marketplace and broad streets are safer. They soon arrive to the thick walls of Tyrosh which overlook the sea. At dusk, they can’t see much but they hear gentle lapping of the water against the wooden posts and the walls.    

“I shouldn’t have shouted, earlier,” she apologizes, gazing into the distance, “but there are two things you’re good at: infuriating me… and making me feel safe. I feel safe now.”

After a silence, she pulls down her hood to feel the sea breeze on her face - _because you’re the only one here who can see me,_ she explains.

They walk back home by an unspoken agreement, her cloak brushing his arm with every step. Remembering a shortcut he took once with Collio Cletis, Sandor leads her through a different part of the town, until he realizes he doesn’t recognize their surroundings. He doesn’t tell her, but she’s not a fool: when they come back to the same small square after he made them turn right and left haphazardly, she offers him to ask their way in Valyrian. Taking it as an offence to his sense of direction, he shakes his head and leads her to another alley which is not deserted like the other streets they walked through so far.

“Why are there so many people here?” she asks. The alley is indeed filled with men, old or young, who walk alone or by groups, some trying to remain inconspicuous, others laughing noisily. “There are taverns here, I’d wager.”

“No, these are not taverns, I know this place.” _The local Street of Silk._ As soon as the words escape his lips he wishes he could swallow them; beside him, she stiffens at the sight of a woman stepping on a balcony. Wearing a robe she shamelessly opens, revealing her tits and her nakedness, the woman immediately draws the attention of the men below.

“Oh.” The whistling and laughing of the men almost drowns out Sansa’s reaction to the scene. “You know this place. You come here often, don’t you?”

“What? Where?”

“Here. In this street where every building hosts a house of ill repute.” She’s not scandalized by what she sees, but rather disgusted by him, and she goes so far as to step away. _Why in Seven Hells is she mad at me?_

He snorts. “If I fuck whores on my spare time, what does it matter to you?”

As a man moves past them holding a lantern, Sandor can’t miss her crimson cheeks. She doesn’t look furious anymore, just disappointed and sad. _Why?_ he asks himself again.

“I want to go home.” She blinks back tears.

Confused, he leads her away from the brothels; their silence is heavy now and the two feet between them seem an impassable distance.

“I went there once, I stepped into one of those brothels,” he suddenly explains. “With Collio Cletis. I didn’t fuck a whore though.” She stubbornly keeps her eyes on the cobblestones so he adds: “I do have my needs, but when would I go to whores? I work all day, then I come back home…” With a snort of a laughter, he adds: “Assuming I left at night, the wooden floor upstairs creaks so much _you would know_ if I snuck out.” 

She shakes her head and somewhat lengthened her stride. “There are no words to describe this conversation,” she hisses. “Why discuss this... matter with me?”

His words flee him as he realizes how insightful her question is. Why is it important to explain himself and to tell her that, no, he hasn’t been whoring in ages? And why does he swallow hard when her wary eyes finally meet his? Confused, he stares at her back as she hurries back to their home.


	5. Hot-Blooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He fumbles with the laces of his breeches, angrily removes them and climbs in the bathtub, muffling a curse. He splashes some water on his face and for a split second, he pretends it washes away his worries. Sansa’s safety, the bastards I work with, their fucking questions, Sansa insulted, the tension out there, Sansa’s attitude a moment ago… It’s always been about Sansa. It’s always her.
> 
> Where is she now? What is she doing? He suddenly realizes that the three places she went to most likely - the kitchen, the solar and her bedchamber - all have windows giving onto the yard where he take his bath. Could she…? Before he realizes what’s he’s doing, he swivels his head and gazes at the tiny window of the kitchen - it looks more like an arrow slit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this fic and for leaving a comment; they're an author's best reward...
> 
> According to a Wiki of Ice and Fire, Tyroshi people speak a corrupted form of High Valyrian. The few words in Valyrian you’ll read in this update come from a lexicon High Valyrian/English, so it’s a bit different from the vocabulary Tyroshi people are supposed to use, but I did what I could… By the way, if anyone can tell me where to find a good English/High Valyrian lexicon (and not the other way around), they’ll have my eternal gratitude!  
> Warning for voyeurism and adult themes.

Under the relentless heat, the gardens of Collio Cletis’ mansion smell of burnt roses and dust. Sandor wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and gazes at his opponent, a sellsword who supposedly comes from Volantis and once belonged to the Company of the Cat. _The Company of the Cat… Bugger me, this name is a jape. Who are they trying to scare away? Mice?_ There is no way to know if the bald, sturdy man is from Volantis or if he’s a former member of a sellsword company: he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even have a name and everyone here calls him the Volantene. His bald head is running with with sweat while he keeps moving his blade, a curved sword looking like an arakh, as if to impress the Westerosi. Said Westerosi is anything but impressed.

Somewhere on his left, Collio Cletis’ son observes them. Young Lilio Cletis is only ten; having two men training and fighting in his father’s gardens still makes his dark eyes shine. Sandor smirks: if the little one is watching, he’ll give him his money’s worth. The sun has not reached its zenith and is still hidden behind the high walls of the mansion but the heat is already scorching, drying his throat and turning Collio Cletis’ gardens into a pleasant-looking version of the Seven Hells. The Volantene stops waving his curved sword: the air is awfully still now. Staring at the bald man, Sandor juts out his chin ever so slightly. _What are you waiting for?_

His opponent understands his silent question, for he jumps forward, making young Lilio gasp with surprise and excitement. He brandishes his fancy sword with a strangled cry and Sandor hears the blade whistle near him as he dodges. He lets the Volantene tire himself for a minute or two, only countering with a swift blow when necessary. When the man pants with exertion and dabs his forehead with the skirt of his tunic, it’s time to strike back. First he makes him step back, cornering him between the gurgling fountain and the wall, then he rains blow after blow until the bald man falls to his knees. Wincing, the Volantene blocks Sandor’s sword with his blade; Sandor knows he has won yet he stays still and he exerts all his weight on the sword his opponent tries to push back. The Volantene’s dark eyes bulge in his copper-colored face: once the surprise and anger vanish from those dark eyes, something akin to pleading comes to the surface yet Sandor doesn’t move. _Gerion always said I didn’t know when to stop when I trained with squires in the yard of Casterly Rock. I guess some things never change._

“Enough!” the child shouts behind him.

The boy always uses the Common Tongue with him and he even asked Sandor to correct his mistakes, leading him to wonder if he was hired to teach him Westerosi swordfight or to be his maester. Sandor’s unhurried movements exude reluctance as he steps back and lets his opponent scramble to his feet then stand up. They both sheathe their swords and exchange wary glances; he scowls at the Volantene whose bravado didn’t help when Sandor struck back. That’s when he feels Lilio’s thin arm brushing his.

“How- how did you do… this?” the boy asks in the Common Tongue. He’s far from being as fluent as his father, but he makes a point of addressing Sandor in his language. He turns to the boy.

“Anticipation.”

Lilio’s brow furrows and Sandor instantly regrets his shortcoming in Valyrian. _Is there even a word for ‘anticipation’ in their gibberish?_ “I try to guess what will be his next move,” he explains, boring into the boy’s eyes. “That’s why I need to observe him first, before attacking.”

Collio Cletis’ son nods solemnly. “I want to learn.”

His remark brings a half-smile on Sandor’s lips. Lilio is so serious it’s sometimes laughable. The way he looks at Sandor disconcerts him too: he could mock his foreign accent, his strange clothes and his burnt face but he doesn’t seem to care. Even more, there’s a hint of fascination in his eyes sometimes. _Mayhap I’m wrong and the boy just has a fucking squint._

“Can I hold your sword? Please?”

Sandor holds it out to the boy, suppressing a smile. Lilio takes the sword with both hands and Sandor notices his fingers are too short to wrap the thick grip; his mouth slightly open, the boy weighs it up. “It’s heavy. Swords are lighter on this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“You prefer Tyroshi swords, huh?” Sandor asks, removing his tunic soaked in sweat and wiping his forehead with it.

“No! This one is…” Lilio looks for words, then grins at him. “This one is exciting.”

Sandor smiles at his strange choice of words and he’d gladly keep talking with the boy if a fat slave who is most likely Lilio’s private tutor didn’t call him back in Valyrian. The boy retorts something, tapping his foot to show his displeasure.

 _“Konir sagon kostos daor,”_ the slave says. _That’s not possible._ One of the first phrases Sandor learned in Valyrian. Lilio wants to stay but this killjoy won’t let him. He watches the boy walking toward the slave who pats his shoulder and makes him sit down on a stone bench. The slave places an open book in the boy’s hands and points at a line, visibly showing his pupil where their last lesson stopped. With a sigh, Lilio starts reading in a monotonous tone. _Poor lad._

Sandor turns around and walks to the portico where two other sellswords working for Collio Cletis are already honing their weapons. He sits down, leaving some distance between him and the two men. One is a black warrior coming from the Summer Isles, a giant whose little voice surprised Sandor the first time he heard him talk. He goes by Xulah and has served Collio Cletis for more years than any other sellsword here. The other one is a Tyroshi born and bred, a man shorter than Sandor with a green beard and a dark-red birthmark on his forehead. Although his name is Hrasacco everybody calls him Avero. Lilio explained this moniker means _‘grape’_ and that he received it because of his birthmark which is the same color as a grape.

For one minute or two only the scratching sound of steel and Lilio’s high-pitched voice break the silence, then he sees Avero trying to make eye contact with him. He briefly considers walking away and finding another spot in the gardens but shadows grow shorter at this moment of the day and the portico is probably the coolest place here. On top of that, Collio Cletis told him many times over he should stop avoiding the other sellswords, so he rolls his eyes and stays.

Avero leaves his spot next to Xulah and crouches beside Sandor. Ignoring Sandor’s wary gaze, he points at the tunic Sandor has taken off and placed on the marble steps next to him: Avero mumbles something in Valyrian with an unctuous tone, as if he meant to compliment Sandor on his clothes. Sandor makes a tremendous effort not to roll his eyes again but his exasperation only increases when Avero touches the sleeve Sansa mended because he had torn it while training. _You have no right to comment on what she did, you fool._ It’s not the first time the sellswords working with him try to learn more about him and about the person who sews his clothes and makes sure he has something nice and nourishing to eat at noon.

Grinning, Avero locks eyes with him. _“Abrazyrys?”_

Sandor remembers this word. It means _‘wife’_. He grits his teeth, although he doesn’t know why, and heaves a sigh before growling: _“Abrazyrys daor.”_ He thinks it means _‘I don’t have a wife’_ and in case his sentence doesn’t quite convey the idea, his glare clarifies the message. _Bugger off._ His hand instinctively reaches his sword handle.

Visibly undeterred, Avero asks again: _“Live?”_

Sandor learned the meaning of this word a few days after Collio Cletis hired him, when they visited a brothel. _‘Live, live, live,’_ Avero and Xulah chanted, eying the women in the local Street of Silk. Since that day, he knows _‘live’_ is the Valyrian for _‘prostitute’_.

He leaps up, towers above Avero’s sitting form. _“Live daor,”_ he rasps. His sentence probably doesn’t mean _‘she’s not a whore’_ but he’s done trying to learn these people’s language, he’s done pretending he can befriend these barbarians. Avero lifts his hands in an attempt to calm him down, a second too late, for he’s already pouncing on the Tyroshi and punching him. Blinded by anger, he hears faraway cries of protestation, some high-pitched, some low, before two pairs of hands seize his shoulders and force him to let go of Avero. It’s Xulah and the Volantene who only release their hold on him when several feet separate Sandor from Avero. His right hand hurts but it’s the least of his concerns.

Panting, Sandor shrugs off and looks around. The Volantene stares at him with a baffled expression; Xulah whispers soothing words in his own language; Avero sits up, his hand covering his bleeding nose. On Sandor’s right, the fat slave looks horrified and curses under his breath; Lilio gawks at him, before regaining his composure.

“Why?” he shouts at Sandor, using the Common Tongue. The boy sounds shocked but there’s something more in his eyes Sandor can’t quite place. Could it be disappointment?

“He insulted-” Sandor stops short from saying Sansa’s name because her presence in Tyrosh must remain a mystery. “He insulted me.” _It’s true, somehow._

Lilio asks Avero and the man obviously denies everything, shaking his head and feigning indignation. The boy turns to Sandor again: “He says he asked you about your wife.”

“I don’t have to answer his questions. And he called her a whore. _‘Live’_.”

Suddenly pallid, Lilio glances at the Tyroshi sellsword with disgust. Avero stubbornly refuses to make eye contact with his master’s son. “My father will be here soon and you will all accompany him,” Lilio informs them. “Try not to fight till then.”

No one dares say a word once the boy walks back inside the mansion, the fat slave in tow, and the cicadas’ chirping in the gardens only emphasizes the heavy silence.

* * *

Tension lingers between Sandor and the other sellswords for the rest of the day. Avero glares at him every now and then and spits to express his resentment. When Sandor finally comes back home, he looks somber but does little to hide it.

Instead of waiting for him in the solar, the little bird goes to meet Sandor in the small yard. Her pale blue dress favors her complexion; she’s the very image of the Maiden when she shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun with her hand. “How was your day?”

Sandor shrugs. “Boring.” He stretches his sore muscles, reaches back behind his shoulders and tugs his tunic over his head. “How was yours?”

She has turned away from him and now pretends to observe the vine on the wall next to the kitchens’ door. _As if the sight of my naked torso was a threat for her virtue._ The wound in his leg hurts again: getting some sleep won’t be easy tonight.

“It was an ordinary day, I guess. Girri and I went to the market place this morning-” Before he can protest, she goes on: “Don’t fret, we only stayed in busy streets and I carried the dagger you gave me. We found some mouth-watering meat and fruits too, so you’ll have a delicious supper. This afternoon I didn’t have much needlework to do so I studied.” She spins on her heels and glances at his right hand. “What is this? What happened?”

His knuckles are red, the skin grazed by places: he never imagined the ugly face of a Tyroshi man sporting a green beard and a birthmark could leave such a trace on his hand. “I fought. That’s what I’m paid for.” Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, revealing she doesn’t believe his half-lie.

“Let me see-”

“No,” he cuts her off. “I’m dirty and my muscles are sore, I need a bath.” He calls the servant and asks her to prepare a bath, here, in the yard, next to the kitchens, so it will be less trouble. He brings the wooden bathtub Girri fills with water. Sansa stays nearby and watches Girri’s comings and goings until decency makes her retreat inside. Did he lose his mind or is there a hint of reluctance in her bearing as she almost drags her feet to the kitchen? Even Girri gives the little bird a puzzled look and for a second he wonders if he’s not right. Not knowing frustrates him and his tone is callous when he sends Girri away. _Why would she stay when you’re taking a bath? This godsforsaken place is too hot and you have the delusions of an old dog.  Sunstroke, that’s what it is._

He fumbles with the laces of his breeches, angrily removes them and climbs in the bathtub, muffling a curse. He splashes some water on his face and for a split second, he pretends it washes away his worries. _Sansa’s safety, the bastards I work with, their fucking questions, Sansa insulted, the tension out there, Sansa’s attitude a moment ago…_ It’s always been about Sansa. It’s always her.

 _Where is she now? What is she doing?_ He suddenly realizes that the three places she went to most likely - the kitchen, the solar and her bedchamber - all have windows giving onto the yard where he take his bath. _Could she…?_ Before he realizes what’s he’s doing, he swivels his head and gazes at the tiny window of the kitchen - it looks more like an arrow slit. _Nothing._ Sitting up and resting his arms on the bathtub rim, he cranes his neck to check the much larger window of the solar, then that of Sansa’s bedroom. _Nothing. Fuck._

Sansa’s window is nonetheless open; even if she’s not observing him, she might be sitting on her bed reading one of her stupid books about knights and fair maidens, maybe even the one that makes her blush. He remembers how she reacted the night he took the book from her hands and read it aloud; he remembers her flushed cheeks and her laboured breath… The mere evocation of her makes him half-hard and he’d gladly take himself in hand if Sansa’s window wasn’t open. _At least my growls of pleasure would make her peek outside,_ he muses bitterly. Exasperated by his own inconsistency, he curls up and sinks down into the bathtub. _Not now._

* * *

Throughout supper he can’t help looking at her while she eats, drinks or talks to him; he’s far too distracted to hold a conversation. He stares at her lips, tries to imagine them swollen after kissing and he wonders if he will recall their exact color when he takes himself in hand later that night. For he will take himself in hand and think about her until he finds his release. _Her lips have the same color as the roses in Collio Cletis’ gardens. They look as soft as petals..._ He snorts, frustrated by the trite phrases churning in his head; he wishes he was better with words.

Contrary to his habits, he doesn’t have another helping this time; he sits back in the brand new armchair, his hands on the armrests, his legs open and he drinks in the sight of the little bird finishing her food before daintily wiping her mouth with her napkin. _I could watch her for the rest of my days eating, walking, reading and be pathetically happy with that._

When Girri brings the dessert, a large plate covered with dark-red fruits, no bigger than mirabelle plums, he notices the little bird almost claps her hands.

“These are delicious. I tasted some when we went to the marketplace and I bought a pound because I knew you would love them,” she explains. “They look like small plums but they taste like cherries, although there is no stone inside. Do you like cherries?” He grumbles a yes. “I love cherries. Cherry trees don’t grow in the North, but during summer we would always have some cherries coming from the South.”

“There were cherry trees in the orchard when I was a boy.”

“Oh really? Westerlands’ climate is hot enough, I guess.” Almost like she expects him to elaborate or to tell him more about the orchard at Clegane’s Keep, but he won’t. Sansa doesn’t need to know about the cherry trees that grow strong in his father’s orchard because there are graves in it. The servants who had crossed Gregor for some reason were buried there, sometimes by Sandor himself.

The little bird was so cheerful a minute before he doesn’t want to brood over his past any longer. He grabs a handful of fruits and eats them one by one, glancing at Sansa who distractedly shoves the red plums into her mouth, staring into space. When she accidentally brushes her lower lip in the process, he wishes it’s his finger on her lip, rolling it ever so slightly before covering her mouth with his and hungrily stealing a kiss. _She must taste good._ He licks his lips.

All of a sudden, she looks up at him, startled: it took her some time to realize she was under his scrutiny, but now her reaction is all the more strong.

“Will you stop staring at me?” she asks, lowering her blue eyes again. Her cheeks are reddening.

“Does my stare bother you?” he rasps, leaning over.

“Of course it does. Staring at people is rude.” She seems suddenly fascinated by the thread of the tablecloth.

“There’s one thing you dislike more than me staring at you: me staring at other women. Am I right?”

Sansa looks up at him. Her mouth dangles open before she regains her composure and asks: “Is it because I shouted at you when we got lost and you took me to that awful street? How can you imagine I care about those… _women_?”

Sandor chuckles darkly, slaps the armrest and gets on his feet. “You don’t know shit. It’s not some... retaliation for the other night.” He walks around the table and stops next to her. “All the men stare at you, little bird. You should be used to it by now. The only difference between them and me comes to this: I don’t pretend I don’t stare at you. I won’t promise I’ll stop because I’m not sure I can.”

She swallows hard and when he breaks eye contact with her he sees her heaving a sigh in the periphery of his vision. _Is my gaze too heavy for you?_

“I bid you good night,” he adds, walking to the staircase. Before going upstairs he gives her a last glance. “Tell me something. Can you look at me in the eyes and swear you never stare at men, little bird?”

From where Sandor is, she has her back to him; she swivels her hips and her blue eyes meet his. She doesn’t answer though. _That’s exactly what I thought._

* * *

Taking himself in hand tempts him more than ever after leaving Sansa, except he doesn’t do anything at first; for a reason he can’t even express in the recesses of his mind he wants to be sure she’s asleep before doing it. He lies on his bed for what seems like an eternity, listening to the faraway sounds coming from the streets and to those, more familiar coming from downstairs. Sansa finally climbs the stairs; the creaking of a door informs him she’s in her bedchamber. He waits some more, hoping she will fall asleep soon: in the end he gives in and his hands move of their own accord, pushing the sheets away, yanking his breeches open. When his right hand wraps around his cock and gives it a satisfying pull, he can’t help but heaving a sigh.

No matter how impatient he is, he tries hard to take his time. _I waited for so long…_ Sansa’s mouth is the first image that comes to his mind: pink and luscious, her lips are always slightly ajar when he calls forth his memories of her in the solitude of his bedchamber. They’re always soft under the pad of his thumb, or so he tells himself in the lustful haze that makes his eyelids close and his head toss back in relief. It’s not pleasure yet, only the certainty it will come and soon. Sandor focuses again on Sansa’s lips, on their fullness he finds so arousing. Their image fills the room and chases away the darkness as he strokes himself harder, picturing Sansa sucking him. She’s always willing in his fantasies.

He briefly remembers he’s not quite alone in the house and therefore has to be quiet, but when his balls tighten nothing else matters anymore; there are only his cock, his hand around it and Sansa’s lips. It’s always this image that make his pleasure more intense - and noisier. Her name is on his lips, repeatedly, like a chant, because he waited for such a long time. And because sleeping next to her room drives him mad. Once or twice, he asked himself what would happen if he visited her in the night, if he quietly opened her bedroom door and sneaked in to observe her while she sleeps. _I wouldn’t stop at a peek. Fuck, no._ The idea makes him snort but he’s so out of breath  it’s almost painful. Lying on his bed, he tries to breathe evenly and to clear his mind.

He exhales slowly then wipes his brow with the back of his hand. _I should get some sleep. Sleeping will be easier now that-_

The wooden floor creaks suddenly, startling him. It’s not in his bedroom, but right on the threshold. _The floorboard. The damn spot that always creaks under my weight._ There’s someone on the landing, standing right in front of his door and he might have an idea of who this person is and what she was doing. Propping himself on an elbow, he listens carefully: there’s the faint noise of bare feet on the wooden floor, a door opened and closed with a wealth of precaution, then silence.

For a second he wonders if it was a dream, if all this happened in his head, but no, it’s real. There was someone behind his door, listening if not spying on him. _Sansa._ He doesn’t picture her watching through the keyhole and he doubts she could see anything in the darkness but he knows for sure she was there and she heard him. She knew he was fucking his hand, she heard him panting - she’s not a maiden anymore, after all.

 _She heard me say her name._ A shiver runs down his spine.


	6. Staggered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upstairs, he pauses in front of Sansa’s door, briefly considering to apologize. Apologies won’t solve his problem though: he shares a house with the girl he lusts after but there’s no way he can have her. Keeping his eyes on the wooden floor, he turns around and opens his door. It’s only once he’s inside, ready to close the door behind him that he notices her. Sansa Stark. Lying on his fucking bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Underthenorthernlights edited this chapter: thank you, dear!
> 
> Sorry for the wait! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. A huge thank you to all the people who commented, left kudos and such: your support and your messages mean a lot to me.  
> No specific warning here, except this update deals with adult themes again. Maybe some of you will find the last lines a bit crude, but it’s Sandor’s POV, after all.

An unknown feeling, different from anger yet just as overwhelming grows inside his chest when he opens his eyes and remembers what happened the night before. _The little bird heard me. Maybe she saw me taking myself in hand. She heard me say her name._ Saying he’s confused is an understatement; the night before deprived him of his bearings and he’s now lost. It feels like arriving in some foreign country and having no clue about the local customs.

_Am I even supposed to talk about this with her?_ He decides he won’t discuss the incident with Sansa: he won’t make that mistake and entangle himself in a very awkward conversation. Later mayhap, once he’s sure he can have the upper hand. _Does she know I heard her?_ Sandor rolls on his side, sits up on the edge of his bed and buries his face in his hands. She’s a grown woman, married and bedded, she's no silly goose yet she remains the little bird. It’s not that difficult to impress her or to silence her if need be.

He’ll be the Hound again, if this is all it takes to remind her who she lives with and what happens to young ladies who forget themselves. She shouldn’t have strayed from the path her septa showed her years ago: she needs a lesson and he’ll gladly give it to her.

When he goes downstairs she’s already there, talking casually with Girri. Sansa wears a pink silk dress that makes her look as if dawn itself wrapped her slender body. She greets him as if nothing had happened, and only her sudden pallor betrays her disquiet.

Wordless, Sandor looks her up and down, slumps on his armchair with a grunt and starts eating the food the servant placed on the table for them. The little bird tiptoes toward the table and sits down quietly, careful not to disturb him and unaware of what he has in mind. His plan is simple: be rude, make her cry, remind her he’s the Hound and she shouldn’t mess with him.

The moment he opens his mouth and starts chastising her, her blue eyes widen with surprise, then her lower lip begins to tremble; he knows this gaze of hers will haunt him later, when walking in scorching heat behind Collio Cletis or during Lilio's swordplay lesson. Overcome by doubt when tears start running down her cheeks, his voice suddenly falters. _She might have heard you fucking your hand and whispering her name, but don’t fool yourself: she will never be yours. Not ever._ His fingers curl into balled fists.

Seething with anger now, he shouts at her about her duties, about her dress, about anything and everything. Hatred and fear will force her to keep her distance. Still sitting opposite to him, she cowers and sobs yet she never looks away. Little birds are strange creatures.

Startled by the shouting, Girri stands on the threshold, clearly appalled by the sight of her crying young mistress in front of a barely touched meal. Sandor can tell the servant loathes him at that very moment but he doesn’t give a shit. The old woman will comfort the little bird and tell her how awful the scarred man is who gave them a roof over their head: unbeknown to her, Girri will complete his morning task and help him build a wall between Sansa and himself.

He pushes out from his seat, making the legs of his armchair squeak against the floor in the process, and he strides out without seemingly paying attention to her muffled sobs; Sansa’s whining will keep playing in his head all day but for now he’s the brute who walks away, leaving a crying little bird in his wake.

* * *

After his daily lesson of Westerosi swordplay, young Lilio asks Sandor why he seems so distracted. It’s clearly a nudge to make him open his heart. Wiping his brow, Sandor looks down at the boy then shrugs. How could he tell a mere child he’s obsessed with a woman who might be interested in him too? How could he tell him he can’t have her and that he made her cry this morning to make sure she stays in her place?

Under the dark curls crowning his head, Lilio frowns deeply, probably offended by Sandor’s secretive behavior. The boy’s father is already calling the sellswords before taking a walk and that's how Sandor escapes the child's curiosity.

The sun is already setting, casting orange hues on the decrepit walls of the old town as he walks out of Collio Cletis' mansion. The lazy atmosphere of the harbor city briefly tempts him; if he ignores the Tyroshi gibberish and the ridiculous attire of the locals he can pretend he's in Lannisport. A night in some tavern would be welcome although wine is awfully expensive here...

He stops at the corner of a street, hesitating. There's enough coin in his purse to drain a flagon of wine; the little bird won't miss him. _The little bird..._ He made her cry, he bets she hates him now. With a snort, he glares at a young woman wearing a pink dress similar to hers. She walks with short, quick steps. _She's not half as graceful as the little bird, she'll never be._ No matter how frustrating it is to sleep only a few yards from Sansa knowing he can't touch her, he can't have her; no matter how he aches for her: sharing the same roof is always better than being thousands of leagues away.

His legs walk on their own accord and he takes a left in the alley leading to the part of Tyrosh where he lives with Sansa. The upcoming supper will be awkward to say the least; he doesn't expect her to make conversation after he treated her so badly this morning. Sansa will pout and retreat into a dignified silence. _But I'll see her. I'll know she's somewhere upstairs, if she's still crying in her bedroom, refusing to have supper with me._ He rolls his eyes at a cart blocking the way, shoves two or three passers-by who protest meekly and hurries back home.

His forehead is dripping wet when he arrives. The smell of meat simmering with onions comes from the kitchens. Girri is in the yard, a pile of dry clothes on her shoulder; she throws one more piece of cloth over her shoulder before stopping and staring at Sandor's hulking form. Girri might be a slave, but she's not one to cringe in front of her masters: she holds his gaze and when she frowns, it's not because the setting sun blinds her. _You can hate me. Suit yourself. I don't give a shit._

Shrugging, he crosses the yard, moves past the servant and walks in the kitchens. He stops by the hearth and lifts the lid covering the pot. The smell of hot stew makes him salivate: for lack of being welcoming, Girri is at least a decent cook. He lets out a contented sigh and heads to the solar; Sansa must be there, probably doing some needlework or reading. Sandor freezes on the threshold, surprised not to see her. _Where is she?_ Going back outside, he clears his throat to get Girri’s attention. The old woman spins on her heels and looks at him, a blank expression on her face.

“Where is your mistress?” _Please don’t tell me she’s somewhere in this filthy town at this hour of the day._ The first stars will soon shine in the purple sky. Looking unimpressed by his urgent tone, Girri doesn’t even take the trouble to answer and she points a bony finger upward.

“Do you mean she’s upstairs, sulking in her bedroom?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer and hurries back inside.

_She hears you take yourself in hand and moaning her name, then the next morning you yell at her for no good reason; what did you expect, Dog?_ Each step feels heavier and more difficult than the last as he climbs the stairs. The little bird must be crying on her bed, ruing the day he killed her lord husband and Littlefinger before whisking her away. Will she even go downstairs for supper? He easily pictures her asking Girri to bring a tray with some food and the old servant eagerly nodding. Mayhap Girri herself advised her to give him the cold shoulder. You never know what those sneaky barbarians are up to.

Once upstairs, he pauses in front of Sansa’s door, briefly considering to apologize. Apologies won’t solve his problem though: he shares a house with the girl he lusts after but there’s no way he can have her. Keeping his eyes on the wooden floor, he turns around and opens his door. It’s only once he’s inside, ready to close the door behind him that he notices her. Sansa Stark. Lying on his fucking bed.

It’s such a shock to see her there, he thinks at first, he might be dreaming, or he’s drunk, but he only drinks watered wine these days. His breath stuck in his throat, he carefully closes the door behind him and takes a step forward, suddenly afraid of breaking the spell. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even; one arm pillows her head. For now he doesn’t want to think about why she came to his bedroom, he just wants to watch her, to revel in the unfamiliar sight of his little bird wearing her silk dress, lying on top of his covers and sleeping there, like some fairytale princess.

Moving closer, he keeps his eyes on Sansa: as he walks around the bed he catches sight of her slippers on the wooden floor. Now standing between the open window and the bed, he sees her chest going up and down with every breath. His eyes linger on her curves the pink dress barely hides, go down her abdomen and follow her long legs. The skirt of her dress is hitched up, revealing one of her calves and higher, her knee. He sucks in a deep breath: something is not quite right. There’s a pile of clean tunics and breeches on the stool, as if she placed these here for him, but assuming she came in his room to drop off his fresh clothes, why is she lying asleep on his bed? He briefly turns around and contemplates the window he left ajar this morning: why is it wide open now? Why is her dress half hiked up and why do the sheets beneath Sansa seem crumpled? The only possible answer is like a punch in his gut: she came here on the pretext of putting some clean clothes in his room, lied down on his bed and pleasured herself there. _Hence the hiked up skirt._ She opened the window widely, either before or after, to air the room and to make sure he would not smell her presence afterwards. _Looks like you failed, little bird. Taking a nap on my bed was a bad idea._

He takes another step forward; his knee bumps into the bed frame, moving the bed slightly and his shadow covers Sansa’s body. She moans softly, rolls on one side and her eyes flutter open. His looming form is the first thing she sees; she sits up at once, suppressing a little cry.

“What time is it?” she asks, her chest heaving. If she’s trying not to show her uneasiness, she’s doing a less than satisfactory job at it.

“Time to explain what you’re doing here,” he rasps. Sandor steps aside so that the setting sun now lights her face; he secretly rejoices when her cheeks redden. _Do you think you can wriggle out of this, little bird?_

Sansa looks up at him, smoothes her skirt and says: “Girri was done with most of  your clothes, so I took them upstairs. This way she didn’t need to-”

With a snort of a laughter, he cuts her off. “You made no secret of the fact you preferred this room, but do you often fall asleep in other people’s bed?” He knows his twisted smile makes him all the more threatening in this moment. “Note that it’s fine by me, as long as you fall asleep in my bed and not in someone else’s.”

“I won’t let you intimidate me” she hisses, before pausing. “I just came here so that you would find fresh clothes when coming back home, but I was _tired_ and I fell asleep.”

“You piss on my leg, then you tell me it’s raining, huh?” he spats. “A big lie for a delicate thing like you… Your own bed is a few yards away. Quit lying now, my lady: you’re making a fool of yourself.”

“I’m not!” Her voice exudes anger as she stands up and holds his gaze. They stand a couple of feet apart, silently challenging each other. He thought she would shy away from him and quickly retreat to her room but she doesn’t; she’s determined to stand up to him. It’s one of the things that have changed since King’s Landing: she somehow learned she was stronger than she thought and she’s more confident. There’s no way her story is true, he knows it. He bets she knows he’ll never believe her, but she doesn’t seem to care. With impatience, he wipes his forehead. There was a time when her lies infuriated him or that was what he used to tell himself but for a reason he can’t explain, he’s even more aroused now. _She’s lying to me, in that stupid silk dress and she took a nap on my bed after pleasuring herself._ His cock twitches.

Scowling at her, he reaches back behind his shoulders and tugs his tunic over his head. “What are you doing?” She sounds shocked now. _Bugger me. She brazenly lies to me then she feigns indignation when I take off my tunic..._

He smiles. “This is my room. Unlike some people, I tend to undress in my own bedroom.”

Sansa slowly shakes her head in disapproval, her blue eyes narrowing at him. “I’ll give you some privacy, then,” she recites before spinning around and walking to the door.

_Fuck, I want her,_ is all he can think about as he watches her turn tail.

The door opens and closes leaving him alone with his interrogations. _What in Seven Hells does she want?_ Since he stole her from Littlefinger, he spent his time fighting his want, mocking his fantasies and keeping his desire on a leash. But did he ever wonder what she truly wanted, what she expected of him? Still confused about what just happened, he stares at the rumpled sheets. She was lying there before his arrival and at some point she felt so aroused she quickly undid the laces of her smallclothes to touch herself until she found her release.

Looking down at the sheets, he sees her as if she was before his eyes: the silky fabric catching the afternoon light as she hurriedly hitches up her skirts, her lower lip swollen because she bites it to muffle her cries, her fingers stroking the pearl between her open thighs. He imagines her hair fanning out across the pillow and her back arching until it becomes mildly comfortable. Eyes closed, he can almost hear her moan. He’s sure pleasure gives her features a wild sort of beauty.

Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he’s on his knees, bent over the mattress, looking for the spot where she lied, smelling the sheets, tracking her musky scent, like a dog sniffs her mistress’ clothes.  



	7. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call it a passing fancy of hers, call it a bloody miracle, it won’t happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a very long time.  
> As usual, Underthenorthernlights edited this chapter. A huge thank you to my dear S. for his support and his help.  
> Warning for mature content.  
> This is the chapter some of you have been waiting for since the beginning of this story.  
> Some parts of this update directly refer to what happened between Sansa and Sandor in ‘Nobody’s Woman’ (‘Burning Bridges’ being a sequel to that story). That being said, it’s not necessary to read ‘Nobody’s Woman’ to understand or to enjoy this update.  
> As it is a divergence from canon some of you might want to ignore, I placed an asterisk at the beginning of the paragraphs alluding to the events described in ‘Nobody’s Woman’.

How could he sleep after seeing what he saw, after understanding what Sansa did? Sweat beads across Sandor’s brow as he lies down on the mattress - right where he found her asleep mere hours before. The musky scent he sniffed earlier on the sheet left little room for imagination. She pleasured herself there, in this very bed: of this, he is sure. _What kind of twisted game is she playing with me?_

A long time ago, before Quiet Isle, before his drunken wanderings in the Riverlands, when he was a member of the Lannister household, he thought Sansa Stark was as pure as he was vile, as chaste as his mind was corrupt. _Mayhap it is not as simple._ It took him a while to acknowledge this and he easily imagines how ghosts from his past, like Jaime or Gerion Lannister could mock him: underneath their silky, sweet-scented clothes, high-born ladies are just like other women, they need a man in their bed and when they don’t have a man, they find another way to satisfy their needs. The little bird needs a man. He might be a fool, a thickheaded man who doesn’t know how to read other people’s behavior, but in his defense, the sole idea of the little bird needing a man is highly disruptive.

He tosses in his bed, cursing the heat and the barking of a dog; all things coming from the open window. Deep down he knows the noises outside and the temperature have nothing to do with his sleeplessness. He admits it: a warrior like him can sleep no matter what’s happening around, unless he has something on his mind. It would be useless to blame the stray dogs running in the alleys of this foreign town, or to impute his wakefulness to the hot, humid air. The cause is much closer, sleeping soundly in the room opposite to his. He can’t help imagining she sleeps soundly, her chest going up and down as she breathes, now that she’s sated. Fucking his hand always helps him fall asleep.

Sandor soon reaches the point when the sheet beneath him itches, when he can no longer stay in bed. He needs to stretch his long legs and any change of scenery, as negligible as it might be, will be welcome. Before long, he sits up and rests his feet to the floor. _The rooftop. I need some fresh air._ He quickly puts his breeches on, then, with a wealth of precaution, he opens the door and closes it behind him; even the floorboard that usually creaks under his weight and betrayed Sansa the other night when she was most likely spying on him remains silent.

In the flight of stairs leading to the roof, he already feels better, until he finds the trapdoor open - he’ll have to remind Girri, their old servant, that this trapdoor should be always locked. Suppressing a growl of annoyment, he pushes the trapdoor and steps onto the rooftop. Something moves, nearby, so he instinctively prepares to fight whoever is here; in the meanwhile, his eyes adjust themselves to the darkness and he discerns a slender form near the edge of the rooftop...

“What are you doing here?” a feminine voice asks. Although each syllable is laced with an unfamiliar angry tone, he recognizes Sansa. _What in Seven Hells is the little bird doing alone on the rooftop, in the middle of the night?_

His eyes narrow as he steps closer: he’s not sure if she can read his deliberately threatening expression in the dark but she can’t miss his looming frame when he plants himself in front of her. Another step backward and she’s bumping in the low wall separating her from the void. Her tiny gasp amuses Sandor as much as it infuriates him .

“What are you doing on the rooftop ?” he asks in return. “It’s late. Shouldn't the little bird be in her nest at the hour of the owl?”

Under the feeble light provided by the moon, Sansa’s face looks both furious and uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” she retorts. “You’re the one who gets up at dawn to sell your services to Collio Cletis.”

Her thin nightgown sticks to her skin by places; her hair is braided and rests on one shoulder, guiding his eyes to one of her breasts. _She shouldn’t be here… It’s dangerous._ These were the words he kept repeating himself whenever their paths crossed in the Red Keep after dark. He would send her to her apartments, without giving her the opportunity to protest. At the time he didn’t need to think; he followed the boy king’s orders and he knew exactly where were his boundaries.

*Until that last night in the Red Keep, when he pushed his luck and knocked at her door. Until he scared her and decided to run away. The moment he became his own master, by fleeing like a fucking turncloak, everything got blurred.

His boundaries are much more difficult to define, these days.

In front of him, the little bird shakes as if she was cold despite the stifling climate. _Good,_ he thinks _. Let her be frightened._ “I couldn’t sleep, she finally explains. “Nor could you, I'd wager.”

She stops shaking and turns her back to him with determination as if she needed to scrutinize the dark streets of Tyrosh rather than his ugly face. _Suit yourself,_ girl. It’s pretense, he’d bet his hound shaped helmet on this, if the Elder Brother had not left it resting on his grave.

A long silence ensues, as he leans against the low wall, observing - or rather, feigning to observe - the asleep harbor city. Side by side, doing the exact same thing but ignoring each other, they’re irreconcilable. Tension only increases as none of them seems ready to yield and to leave the battlefield this silent rooftop has become.

 _The longer she stays here, the more dangerous it is._ His fingers tense on the rim of the low wall until his knuckles turn white. The only way to make her go back to her bedchamber is to provoke her; at least, it’s the only solution that comes to mind. He swivels his head and observes her face despite the dim light. Soon enough, she feels his eyes on her and glances at him - before her gaze cautiously darts away. Sandor doesn’t move and drinks in her sight, persuaded it won’t be long before he infuriates her and makes her turn tail. When she will, a hole will grow wider inside his chest. _But it’s a hole named peace of mind._ Sansa glances again at him, several times, like a cornered little animal, her eyes slightly narrowed, before doing something unexpected.

Slowly, her chest moving up and down with every breath, Sansa turns to him. Her lips part and he wonders what she’s about to say, but then again, she confounds all forecasts by remaining silent and staring at him before lightly touching his forearm. This mere contact is so strange, so unfamiliar it feels like an uncalled-for familiarity, almost an aggression. He doesn’t even need to conjure the Hound’s persona to growl: “What were you doing in my room, this afternoon?”

Sansa jumps. Her fingers remain on his forearm as if he was a wild animal she tried to calm down and to tame, but her muscles stiffen. “I told you. I brought you some fresh clothes and I fell asleep on your bed,” she explains in a toneless voice.

“Liar. Don’t you know by now how I hate liars?”

Baffled, she removes her hand from his arm and steps back; she bumps again in the low wall as he moves closer, cutting off Sansa’s retreat.

“You can admit it, now. You miss your late husband.” If she doesn’t understand what he implies, his jeering tone will infuriate her, he knows it.

An outraged cry is her first answer, after a few seconds. _You’re not the innocent girl I once knew, you know exactly what I mean, don’t you?_ This idea brings a wicked smile on his face. They carefully observe each other until the sharp sound of a slap breaks the silence; his good cheek hurts and under the moonlight, the little bird looks stunned.

It takes her a short while to regain her composure: she brushes aside a strand of hair and when she bores into his eyes, she’s this high-born girl who makes him feel unworthy of her. “How dare you?” she spits.

“Thus spoke the Stark of Winterfell,” he mocks, “the lady who never loosens up but still needs a man in her bed. Look at me and tell me I’m wrong!”

Anger twists her features and he stills her arms before she slaps him again. Deep down he knows he deserves it but he fears his own reaction should she strike him once more. Cornered, her wrists firmly held by the man who insulted her, Sansa is on the verge of tears. Put an end _to this situation before it is too late. Don’t do something you’d regret._

“Go to your bedroom now,” he rasps.

“I don’t want to!”

“It doesn’t matter, really. I’ll see you to your bedroom.”

One hand around her wrist, the other one tightly wrapped around her waist, he leads her to the trapdoor. She gasps, thrashes about; he thought his tone and his iron grip would scare her but she keeps flailing.

“You’re going to wake up the servant,” he cruelly whispers in her ear, once they reach the trapdoor. “Do you want her to see you like this?”

As he waits for an answer, Sansa stiffens in his arms. She stops wriggling and he hears her saying in an undertone: “I’ll make you pay for this.”

The flight of stairs is steep, so he goes first, crushing Sansa’s wrist so that she follows him.

“Will you lock me in my bedroom?”

“Your bedroom door doesn’t have a lock,” he replies. “I bet you’ll stay inside and be a good girl.”

“What if I leave my room again and go to the rooftop?” _Deliberate provocation._ Somehow he loves it.

“I’m pretty sure you won’t leave your room until dawn.” They’re in front of her bedroom now; without any candle, he has to grope around to find the door. Reluctantly, he lets go of her. _It’s better this way._ He knows he should either go back to his room or to the rooftop but his feet seem glued to the floor.

* A long time ago, he had found himself in front of her door in the dead of night. He had been drunk and angry and lustful and she had opened her door to him, much to Sandor’s surprise. Now only lust remains and Sansa isn’t even _behind_ the door.

Only a foot of space separates them. Of its own accord, his hand reaches out to her cheek and caresses it very slowly. “Go to sleep now.” Her skin is soft under the pad of his fingers. She steps back after a while, thus escaping his touch and she opens her bedroom door. Inside, a candle feebly lights Sansa’s bedside. He sucks in a deep breath: she’ll close that door and leave him with his immeasurable loneliness and his hard cock. For now he just relishes her presence and takes a deep breath to enjoy her scent - just a little longer.

Hesitating, Sansa steps in her room and turns to him - to bid him good night, as if nothing had happened, he thinks - but then again, she surprises him.

“Men have their needs,” she whispers, the candle behind her making her red hair look brighter. “Women too. Why would we be different? Why would _I_ be different?”

As he remains silent, staggered by her confession, she goes on: “Did I fall in your estimation, by admitting this?”

He shakes his head, suddenly ashamed and utters a strangled “No.”

“Come in,” she says.

His jaw drops. He must have misunderstood. There’s no way she asks him to come in her bedroom after he almost dragged her across the house.

*When they both lived in the Red Keep, she had been naive enough to open her door to him, that night, the last one he had spent in King’s Landing. _But she was a mere child at this time; she has changed now, she’s a grown woman who ponders every fucking decision she makes. She can’t have told me to come in._

“Come in,” she repeats.

There’s this strange flutter in his ribcage when he obeys and crosses the threshold; she steps back to make some room for him and pushes the door closed.

“Gods be cursed if I understand what you want, girl.” Despite his offhand remark, the strange sensation in his chest is still here, perhaps even more acute; another glance at Sansa’s curves and his cock twitches.

*That night when she had let him in, he had taken advantage of the situation to hold her, to pin her to the wall and to steal a kiss. He won’t stop at a stolen kiss this time.

The candle resting on a table near the bed hardly lights the room; she nevertheless walks to the bedside, takes the candlestick and goes back to him. Somewhat lifting the candlestick, she observes Sandor. Going from his half-burnt face to his bare chest, then to his waist, her gaze never flinches. He’s hard as rock now and there’s no way she missed it.

The moment her eyes go back to his face he curses himself for not being able to read her expression. He clenches and unclenches his hands.

“Don’t we want the same?” she asks. A lady like her should quaver, when voicing such a thought, but she remains oddly calm, planted in front of him, the bright sphere of the candle in her hand. Sandor doesn’t know what is more unsettling: her suggestion, or the control she seems to have on the situation?

In his blurred, wine-induced memories, women - _whores,_ he should say - are always docile, asking what he wants, assuming they dare talk to a man twice their weight. _Something is not quite right._

He closes the distance between them and cups Sansa’s chin a bit more forcefully than needed. She gasps, yet looks at him in the eyes.

“Are you sure that’s what you want, woman?”

Sansa doesn’t shake under his touch, nor does she look away; a firm nod of the head confirms what she implied earlier. _What kind of fool would I be if I refused?_

Using his free hand to pull her close and to almost crush her against his chest, he ducks his head to claim her lips. They’re soft under his. The way she arches her back drives him mad, but not nearly as much as the way she answers his kiss; he thought his lust would scare her away, he didn’t know she’d be as eager as he is. He didn’t know she would flick her tongue against his teeth then let him deepen their kiss.

The candlestick sways dangerously in Sansa’s hand, the flame lighting alternatively Sansa’s long braid and the bed on her right. He breaks their kiss, eliciting a tiny moan of surprise and takes the candlestick from her hand. In two strides, he’s by her bedside and places the candlestick back on the table, then he turns around and almost bumps into her. _She followed me ?_

There’s not a trace of uncertainty or shyness in her blue eyes when she starts unlacing his breeches. He suppresses a grunt and tips his head back; no matter how pleasurable it is - because Sansa’s fingers are working on his laces and are so damn close to his cock - he can’t help feeling awkward because _it doesn’t happen this way, it never does._ He’s never let a whore doing this for him. All of a sudden he realizes he bites his tongue not to protest, then he feels the fabric of his breeches going down his legs and he’s naked in front of her.

His heartbeats become erratic, sounding more and more like some mad war drum. She’s taking in his nakedness, always quiet and poised, and this calmness exuding her whole person somehow infuriates him. _My turn now._

His hand cups her breast without notice, her tiny moan only spurring him to go on. Soon his fingers travel down her body, eager to explore and to possess her, they stop between her legs and stroke her there until she moans louder.

I need to see her. All of her. A yank at her nightgown is not enough; in the end, he’s so clumsy she has to help him.

And finally, she’s naked as her name day, not even trying to hide herself. Once more, her outward confidence makes him uncomfortable; as if he needed to regain control of the situation, he shoves her on the bed. His unceremonious gesture makes her eyes widen when she falls flat on her back but she doesn’t voice any complaint. One swift move and he’s on the mattress, bending over her. Mesmerized by the heaving of her chest - _up and down up and down_ \- he’d gladly take her right away. _But she’s a lady._ In the recesses of his mind, something else urges him to take his time: he might never have her again. _Call it a passing fancy of hers, call it a bloody miracle, it won’t happen again._

He drinks in the sight of her naked body, so pale under the feeble light, caresses a breast, traces the outline of her figure, if only to remember it later in the solitude of his bedchamber. She lets him do as he pleases, then seemingly loses patience and props herself up on an elbow to kiss his lips.

“No,” he says without further explanation. Sansa’s face is only inches of his; she holds his gaze and for a few seconds they stare stonily at each other. With reluctance and never breaking eye contact, she lies back; Sandor resumes his caresses, focusing on her lower belly this time. The red curls down there are soft and she doesn’t pretend surprise or shock when he strokes the pearl between her legs: she pants, she arches her back and the moment he slides a finger between her folds, her wetness brings a smug smile on his lips. _She’s wet for me. The Others take me if I ever thought it was possible._

She’s tight, warm and he only wants to bury his cock inside her yet he keeps pleasuring the woman he once called his little bird, well aware that he won’t have another chance. _Most likely._

Her moans don’t cease and she digs her fingernails into his bicep. _Fuck, I need her now._ Wordless, he removes his hand from her lower belly and takes her in his arms to bring her to the center of the mattress. As he does so, her blue gaze never drifts away from his features. _So you can’t stop looking at my scars, now?_ She probably understood what is next because she spreads her legs until he can settle between them. At that very moment, as she quietly waits for him to take her, he’d like to say something, to tell her how beautiful she is, how smooth her skin is and how he wants her, but his words flee him; there’s no way he can express whatever foolish thoughts cross his mind, so he remains silent, caresses her inner thighs and finally places himself at her opening. With a grunt, he rubs the head of his cock against her slit, his eyes slowly wandering on her belly, her round breasts and further up her mouth; she’s biting her lower lip and when their gazes meet, an imperceptible nod of her head gives him the assent he was waiting for.

From the way she cringes, he understands the first thrust is painful for her yet she hangs on to him. Should he stop? The sensation of being inside her is so exhilarating he doubts he can withdraw now. He nonetheless stills and asks: “Do you want me to stop?”

She shakes her head vehemently and digs her nails deeper in his upper arms. _So be it._ For the next couple of thrusts, pain wrings tears from her eyes. He wishes he could apologize to her; the only sound escaping his lips is a deep grunt though, pleasure mixed with guilt, because she obviously suffers. _Does guilt make this even more pleasurable?_

His cock is completely inside her now and the look of pain disappears from her face. He could very well come like this, especially if she keeps her legs wrapped around his middle but a sudden realization ruins the moment. This is the way her late lord husband used to take her, most likely. When this fool named Harold Hardyng visited her at night, in the hopes of getting an heir, he certainly made her spread her legs and crushed her under his weight… _I’m not her lord husband. I fuck her because she clearly showed she wanted me_. He withdraws and sits on his haunches, much to Sansa’s surprise. No need to be a seer to grasp what she asks herself, behind her furrowed brow. _'Is it over? Already?'_

“Make some room for me,” he growls. Sansa docilely complies and retreats to one side of the bed while he lies down with a grunt. “Straddle me,” he orders her. As she doesn’t move, he insists: “Come here, girl. Straddle me.”

 _She never did it._ It seems more and more obvious as she cautiously crawls to him; in the end he has to grab her waist and pull her close to make her bestride him. _You don’t really know what to do, right?_ The uncertainty in her eyes is endearing; or perhaps would it be endearing if he had a heart. Her hands rest on the top of her thighs, then she clasps them. There’s so much hesitation in her bearing it brings a half-smile on his lips; she frowns, mistaking his amusement for sarcasm, most likely. It’s time he takes the lead and shows her what he wants.

Hands on her hips, he guides her, makes her sit on his cock. Her moaning sounds slightly different this time as if she tried to muffle it. _Why being so shy, all of a sudden? Because I can see you?_ It’s true he can’t help staring at her. Sandor’s eyes wander from her lower belly to the dip of her waist and then, higher, to her full breasts. Keeping his left hand on her hip, he cups one breast, kneads it and gently pinches her nipple. A little cry escapes her lips. _Let yourself go. No need to pretend now._ He wonders if she understands what he silently tries to tell her. So he goes on, until her moaning becomes louder and she starts rocking her hips against his, not because he guides her movements but because she obviously enjoys it.

He sits up with a grunt, eyes locked with Sansa’s, and licks one of her hard nipples. By the way she shivers under his touch, he knows instinctively she enjoys it. Her breast fills his hand like her moaning fills his ears and it’s an unfamiliar sensation when she tips her head back in pleasure. _She likes it, she really does._ Before long, he feels her inner walls tightening around his cock and he sees her covering her mouth with her hand not to wake the old servant; she rides him, eyes squeezed shut, her hand muffling her cries of pleasure, then she stills her movements and lets out a deep sigh.

Speechless, he looks at the woman whom he used to picture naked when he took himself in hand. _She just came._ Still straddling him, Sansa catches her breath, eyes closed, unaware of how beautiful she looks. With her long braid and perfect body, she’s a goddess, but not like the Seven Gods he was taught to fear in his childhood. In the flickering light of the candle, her skin is not ivory anymore but almost golden, like the exotic goddesses Barbarians pray to in Essos. She looks powerful and this feeling is so unusual he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“Lie down.” As always when something about Sansa unsettles him, his tone becomes slightly aggressive. For a split second, Sansa pouts, then she complies and rolls on her back.

He covers her body with his, spreads her legs and takes her again. It’s him grunting this time and him pinning her wrists on the mattress. Her mouth ajar, she lets him do as he pleases, but her eyes silently ask for an explanation _. You liked it when I took care of your needs and now you find me a little brutal, don’t you?_

He nevertheless thrusts inside her, harder than before, knowing she’ll be sore come the morning and when he finds his release, a low growl fills the room. Instead of staying inside her, he gathers his strength to prop himself up on his elbows, withdraws and collapses on the bed, right beside her. Holding her gaze is beyond him for now; he therefore closes his eyes, panting, wondering if she will speak and hoping she’d stay silent.

Side by side and breathing heavily, they don’t exchange a word. None of them dares to move and soon, the few inches separating them become an impassable border of crumpled linen.

Slumber sneaks after a short while, making him close his eyes, preventing him from thinking about the best course of action. _At dawn… At dawn I shall leave,_ he promises himself. In his last conscious thought, he calls himself a bugger, for the first rays of the sun will dissipate the darkness soon, but he’s too exhausted not to give up.

 


	8. Unwavering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s fingers the brush his forearm. “I regret none of it, because it made me realize my feelings for you.” This is happening; he sees it in her eyes and hears it in her voice. He can’t let this happen. His forefinger placed on Sansa’s lips silences her before she adds anything: she frowns, dumbfounded by his reaction.  
> His tone is adamant as he says: “I will have none of it. Swallow back your high-minded tirade. Fucking me might have been good and made you temporarily forget I’m a turncloak whose face is half-burnt. A good fuck blurs the other’s flaws; it never lasts though, and soon you’ll see me again for what I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of birth control and foul language.  
> Darker and darker… A PM on FF.net made me realize I’d better warn you again and remind you this story is darker than most fics. I’m not, by any means, describing an ideal or a happy relationship. If you’re looking for a story where Sandor and Sansa have a happy relationship, it’s still time to abandon ship and go read something different: lots of fics with a happy Sansa await you on this site… It’s the same if you can’t fathom a SanSan fic without a happy ending. Maybe I sound a bit insisting, but… better be safe than sorry.  
> I used A Wiki of Ice and Fire Valyrian dictionary for the opening scene. I did my best, but if there are experts of High Valyrian amongst the readers, they might find it sound a bit like Google translator... If anyone knows how to find a best dictionary, I’m interested!

The apothecary is a larger shop than expected with big windows. He first thought his quest would lead him into a foul-smelling hovel of the harbor city, where he’d face some toothless woman: now he could laugh about himself and his prejudices. _Buying moontea seems easier here._ Not that he ever had to buy moontea before, but he’s heard stories about women who walked hours to buy the abortive potion in a place where no one would recognize them or who didn’t find anyone to sell them moontea.

He doesn’t want the little bird to take any risk; if she’s to claim Winterfell once the war is over in Westeros, she can’t cross the Narrow Sea with a bastard. For a second, he pictures a babe with his dark hair and her blue eyes. He shakes his head. _It can’t be. Second sons of minor houses don’t sire high-born babes. Not in this world._

From the depths of the back shop, the apothecary, a short man sporting a long red-dyed mustache, raises his eyebrows at Sandor’s clenched fists resting on the counter. The man scampers back to the counter and places a bulging pouch in front of Sandor.

“Hurenka sumar,” he says. _Moontea._

Sandor nods and the apothecary reads it as an encouragement to elaborate; he therefore starts discoursing on the use of moontea but he talks so fast Sandor only grasps a few words of his verbiage. “Bantis tolvie…” _Every night. “_ bevilza…” _It is necessary._ “... bantis tolvie sumar mozilus…” _She must drink tea every night._

 _Of course she’ll take it every night._ _I’m no fool. I don’t want her to take any chances._ His throat feels as dry as parchment when he tries to ask how much it costs. He nevertheless can count on the apothecary’s diligence to give him this information before he’s able to utter a word. Moontea seems rather expensive in Tyrosh, but again he never bought moontea before so it’s hard to compare. _And I’ll do whatever must be done._

When he leaves the apothecary, deep blue and purple streaks crisscross the sky. Night has fallen over the harbor city. _I guess it’s time to go back home and face her._ In a few minutes, when he’ll cross the threshold, he’ll put on his unreadable mask, but as he’s walking the streets of Tyrosh, with no company but that of stray dogs, he allows himself to lower his gaze and to feel confused about the events of the previous night. _I wished it could happen, I dreamed of it, I conjured this image - the little bird naked in my bed - every night, to keep me company… How is it possible that now it happened for real, I feel so…_ Is there a word to describe his state of mind? Stunned? Sansa surely surprised him but there is more than astonishment. _Stunned_ doesn’t seem strong enough, nor does it tally with the knot he felt in his stomach for the better part of the day. _Anguish,_ he realizes. _It must be anguish. Who would have thought the little bird would almost make me shit myself?_ His mirthless laugh echoes in the alley as he recalls the way his day started.

Panic overwhelmed him at daybreak, when he woke up and remembered the look of pain in Sansa’s eyes when he had taken her. He didn’t pay attention on the moment, because he thought she was a woman twice wedded and bedded, but doubts suddenly crept into his mind once he woke up. What if for some reason unknown to him, neither the Imp nor Harrold Hardyng had consummated their marriage with her? What if he had been the first man she had given herself to?

He then asked her the only way he asked his questions, bluntly: “Were you a maiden, before last night?” No preliminaries, no introduction, just the question that burned his lips.

Sansa laid on her back, the thin sheet covering her naked body, with the exception of her shoulders and arms; her clasped hands rested on her middle. She swiveled her head to look at him. “Of course not. I was my lord husband’s legitimate wife. Before you killed him, that is,” she said matter-of-factly, without a hint of reproach. After a split second of hesitation, she held his gaze. There was something in her blue eyes he had not seen the night before: a warm gleam, something akin to gentleness that made him wary.

“And the Imp’s legitimate wife, before that,” he went on, disturbed by what he saw in her blue eyes.

“I wasn’t Tyrion’s legitimate wife,” the little bird retorted, stiffening. “On our wedding night, he said I still was a child and he prefered whores. I guess he was trying to be generous. It nonetheless felt very humiliating at that time.”

It was a shock for him, to learn that Tyrion had never tried to touch her. He nevertheless noticed she still resented her first husband, as the mere evocation of his name made her jaw tense.

“Are you sore?” Sandor asked her after a silence.

“I am. I will get up as usual, don’t fret. You don’t want the servant to realize something is amiss, do you?” With that, she had deftly wrapped herself in the bedsheet before getting out of the bed and putting some clothes on. The bed suddenly felt empty without her.

 _Something is amiss._ That’s what she said that same morning. He’s had all day to think about the conversation she will insist on having with him. Because he knows the little bird: she’s a Stark, after all. _The Starks always want to have honorable conversations on dishonorable events,_ Tywin Lannister used to say, with a knowing smile. Sandor remembers how Tywin once looked scornfully at Eddard Stark during the latter’s tirade about the Targaryen children, at the end of Robert’s Rebellion. Sandor can’t afford himself the luxury of being condescendant with Eddard Stark’s daughter. He won’t refuse her this conversation; he will answer her questions in a way she doesn’t expect, though.

Once the house is in sight, he forces himself to straighten his back and to regain his composure. The silky moistness of the air makes every step more difficult than the last - or is it nervousness that makes him drag his feet? There’s a lump in his throat as he opens the heavy wooden door, crosses the small yard and walks into the kitchen. Girri shoots him a wary gaze. Does the old servant know or is that the way she always looks at him? _Seven hells, it’s hard to tell._

Sandor spends the next minutes in the solar, sipping watered wine, biding his time. When the clatter of silverware and plates announces supper is ready, the little bird comes downstairs; despite the night they had and the conversation awaiting them, she looks the same: poised, soft-spoken, elegant in her pale blue dress.

As watered wine slowly lulls his senses, he allows himself to recall last night. He remembers the softness of her skin and how it turned from ivory to gold under the candlelight. He remembers her riding his cock; since this morning, it’s the image that obsesses him everytime he closes his eyes. She looked hesitating at first, but after a while, the way she enjoyed herself was so obvious he couldn’t help stare at her. The way she moved, arching her back, head tossed back in pleasure, mesmerized him and in the end, his memories of the moment she came are more vivid than those of his own release. _How is it possible that her victory was sweeter than mine?_ _How come it felt better to pleasure her than to find my release?_ Staring into space, he swirls the wine in his cup. _If I die tomorrow, I’ll be able to say I did two good things in my life: stealing her from the Vale and fucking her until she came._

None of them broaches the topic as long as Girri is within earshot; their supper is a silent one, like many suppers they shared before. It’s only after the servant retreats to the kitchens that Sansa asks if she can have a word with him.

“Certainly, but first there’s something I brought back for you.” She’s sitting opposite to him and he can’t miss her surprised look when he places the pouch containing moontea near her cup of wine. _What did you expect, girl?_ Holding back his comments, he asks :“Do you know how to use it?”

She stares at the pouch, speechless, then shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I can find out though-”

Exhaling deeply, he hastily seizes the pouch, stands up and walks to the kitchen, where Girri is busy cleaning everything. “I need more wine. Go buy sour red.”

The servant protests it is too late and she won’t be able to find wine, sour red or not. He tosses a couple of coins on the kitchen table and looks hard at her until she leaves, grumbling like she always does when his orders irritate her.

“Come here,” he commands Sansa, once the old servant is gone. He then shows her how to measure moontea leaves, add them to boiled water and let brew until it’s ready. In the meanwhile, Sansa stands close and observes everything he does. Her presence is distracting or could be distracting if he allowed himself to think about it; he doesn’t and clenches his jaw.

“You have to drink it every night for the next couple of weeks, just to be sure. Drink now.”

Although she’s tall for a woman, Sansa looks small and fragile as she takes the cup from his hands and raises it to her lips. The beverage must be hot because she gently blows on her tea and sips it daintily.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, all of a sudden, her blue eyes boring into his. “I could have bought moontea myself.”

Another sip of tea, then she glances back at him, visibly waiting for an answer.

He shrugs. “I walked past an apothecary.” It’s a lie, he made a detour to buy moontea. “Besides, you can’t claim Winterfell with a bastard suckling your breast.”

For a second, she squeezes her eyes shut and he wonders what’s happening behind these delicate eyelids, what images come to her mind when he talks about Winterfell and a bastard who could have been sired the night before.

“I wonder how much time we have before Girri comes back,” she whispers. _Oh. Whatever conversation she wants to have with me starts now._

“I thank you for the moontea...” she trails off, setting down the now empty cup on the kitchen table. She’s still so close to him he can smell soap on her hair. “About last night, I wanted to tell you I regret none of it.”

“Good.”

Sansa’s fingers brush his forearm. “I regret none of it, because it made me realize my feelings for you.” _This_ is happening; he sees it in her eyes and hears it in her voice. He can’t let this happen. His forefinger placed on Sansa’s lips silences her before she adds anything: she frowns, dumbfounded by his reaction.

His tone is adamant as he says: “I will have none of it. Swallow back your high-minded tirade. Fucking me might have been good and made you temporarily forget I’m a turncloak whose face is half-burnt. A good fuck blurs the other’s flaws; it never lasts though, and soon you’ll see me again for what I am.”

“What if I have feelings for you?” she protests.

“Are these _feelings_ , really? Seven hells, I don’t think they are. Just your mind playing tricks on you because we fucked and you enjoyed it. Or because I’m the only man around you can speak to in your mother tongue. It doesn’t make me a suitable object of your affections.”

Her eyes are watery now and her lip trembles beneath his forefinger. “Let’s face it, little bird. When you’ll be home again, you’ll have to secure your position and the only way to do that it to marry a lord who will help you rebuild Winterfell and restore the Starks’ power in the North. You can’t be seen in my company and let people gossip about you.”

She pushes away his hands with irritation. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I swore to myself I would help you get Winterfell back and I’m trying to be sensible, although you don’t help me at the moment.”

“So last night…?”

“You said it yourself: men and women have needs. I agree. I’m not going to lie: I lusted for you and I loved to make you come. Now don’t talk about feelings because it would only ruin the memory of last night. There are no love songs about the son of a minor house and a high-born woman and there will never be.”

“I have needs, but I realized it’s more than that and I have-”

“No,” he says firmly. “Don’t talk about bloody feelings.”

When Sansa takes a step back he can read anger or disappointment in her eyes. _I’ll never have her again. Or maybe… I’m pushing my luck, but I must know._

“I can’t offer you one of these pretty stories you heard in love songs because they’re only for fools. However, I can take care of your needs. No feelings, no promises, none of your love songs’ shit, but I can take care of your needs like I protect you.” _With devotion._ His nails dug in the flesh of his palm.

The little bird’s eyes open widely and he wonders if she’s not about to lose her balance because she leans heavily against the table.

He looks at her up and down and says with a incline of his head. “I give you three days to think about it and to give me your answer. You’ll knock at my door and tell me if you accept my offer... or if you keep waiting for your Florian. In the meantime, be a good girl and take your moontea every night.”

Sandor doesn’t wait for her answer. He easily imagines what she thinks at this moment. That he’s cruel, that he’s vile, that a high-born woman shouldn’t consider his offer or even listen to it. It’s a roll of the dice and the chances are that she refuses. He shrugs off the thought, closes his eyes and sees her riding him. Naked, with her hair down. Two days ago he only had fantasies; now he’s got memories and somehow it changes everything.

* * *

 

Three days are long when one is waiting for an answer. His days serving Collio Cletis seem even longer than usual under the relentless sun. His suppers with the little bird are silent and somewhat tense. She looks a lot more troubled than he does and more than once he finds himself wondering if, after all, she’s not going to surprise him and say yes. _You mock Sansa with her Florian and her love songs, but you’re no better. Stupid dog._

His nights are filled with the image - the _memory_ , now - of his little bird riding him or letting him take her. After he takes himself in hand he sleeps soundly, like he never did in years.

And on the third night after he prepared moon tea for her, as he just took off his tunic before going to bed, she knocks on his door. His heart skips a beat because he doesn’t know what will be her answer and he didn’t suspect it could affect him so much; he won’t let her see it though. Before striding to the door, he collects his senses and squares his jaw.

The door creaks and the little bird is here, a candlestick in her hand. Pale as ever, she looks up at him; her free hand plays with the belt of her silk dress.

“You told me to knock at your door and to give you my answer, whether I accepted your... offer or not,” she says.

His head is spinning, yet he manages to reply: “I’m listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting!


	9. Unyielding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are a couple of rules you have to respect to make this work,” he states, tilting his head back and narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.  
> Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Rules?”  
> “This is an agreement, girl. Agreement can only exist if parties keep their promise.”  
> Her frown deepens: most likely, she expected him to throw himself on her right after closing the door. She imagined torn clothes and feverish kisses, she never thought I’d make conversation. His snort of a laughter doesn’t amuse her and her back stiffens imperceptibly. “And what, pray tell, are these rules?” she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by Underthenorthernlights: a huge thank you to my favorite beta!  
> I also want to thank all the wonderful people who read, send comments and leave kudos: you support was greatly appreciated.  
> At the risk of repeating myself, this is not a story about an ideal or a happy relationship. If you’re looking for a fic describing a happy relationship, please don’t read.  
> Warning for adult themes - in this chapter and in the following ones. I guess I could easily brandish the standard of smut to get more readers… However, if someone follows this fic only to read smut, they’re probably going to be disappointed. Sex scenes don’t make sense - in my opinion anyway - if they don’t serve a purpose. I was flattered some of you said in their comments this fic is steamy, but sex scenes only exist here to reveal how Sandor and Sansa’s relationship evolves. Sorry to be so blunt, but this story is not about a roll in the hay, it’s about trust, control and incommunicability.
> 
> This chapter starts where the previous one stopped, after Sansa knocked at Sandor's door to give him her answer...

“I’m listening,” he rasps.

Can the little bird hear the war drum beats of his heart? Probably not, because her own nervousness is quite obvious. Here they stand on each side of the threshold, so focused on their unease they’d easily forget the other’s agitation. Her hands still on the belt of her gown, she briefly looks down and takes a sharp intake of breath before meeting his eyes and saying, clearly and audibly: “I accept your offer.”

_It can’t be._ Never had he suspected four words were enough for his mind to go blank.

“Did you hear me? I told you I accepted your offer. Won’t you let me in?” Now she sounds like the high-born lady she is. Sandor can’t say he remembers well Lady Catelyn Stark; in the recesses of his mind she’s just a red-haired figure wrapped in a long cloak he saw when the royal court stayed in Winterfell, but he’s pretty sure Hoster Tully’s daughter had the same cutting tone.

Standing in front of him, the little bird is awfully pale but the determination in her blue eyes strikes Sandor. After setting his jaw not to show his uneasiness, he steps aside to let her come in. He closes the door, leans against it and looks hard at her to regain his composure. Three feet separate them and she’s between him and the large bed, strangely calm; only her fingers playing with her belt betray her apprehension.

“There are a couple of rules you have to respect to make this work,” he states, tilting his head back and narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Rules?”

“ _This_ is an agreement, girl. Agreement can only exist if parties keep their promise.”

Her frown deepens: most likely, she expected him to throw himself on her right after closing the door. _She imagined torn clothes and feverish kisses, she never thought I’d make conversation._ His snort of a laughter doesn’t amuse her and her back stiffens imperceptibly. “And what, pray tell, are these rules?” she asks.

Now there’s no way out. Pressing the back of his head against the door and staring at her, he says: “First of all, I promise I’ll always do my best to satisfy your needs and never hurt you. Physical pain is pointless. If I ever hurt you, say it and I’ll stop at once.” His voice is tinged with haughtiness as if it was magnanimous of him not to hurt her.

A grave nod welcomes his words and therefore encourages him to go on. “You’re a grown woman. That’s why _you_ will come to me, knock at my door and lie on my bed. Not the other way around. I will not come to you.”

Sansa’s surprise becomes more and more visible as he elaborates. She’s waiting for the moment when he’ll forbid her to do things. _Patience, we’re almost there._ “I expect you to follow a couple of rules in exchange. First, you’ll take your moontea every night of every fucking week.” He sounds a bit threatening now, as he steps forward and bores into her eyes. “No feelings, no declarations of love, no bloody promises. Never. Love is not something the Stark of Winterfell can indulge in and it’s high time you understand it.”

She remains silent, holding his gaze.

“You will always let me do as I please with you first. Men should always take the lead. Besides, you can always go back to your bedchamber and cry for your Florian if you’re not happy with what I’m doing to you. But… If you stay, if you’re a good girl, you can ask of me whatever you want once I’m done and I’ll oblige you.”

For a heartbeat her eyes widen before the well-mannered, cool-headed lady comes back. She smoothes her skirts, tilts her chin up as if they were discussing some political matter and not her own desires.

“I will comply with this,” she trails off. “Do I have a choice, anyway?”

“You’ll always have the choice to come to me or not, to stay or leave, I promise.” _And now I sound like a bloody knight in shining armor._ The fact he really _means_ it doesn’t change anything; he refuses to look like he might, someday, soften and turn into Sansa’s lapdog. A step backward, a scowl, and he already feels a lot more comfortable.

His attitude is probably unreadable for the little bird who adds: “Is there another rule you forgot to mention?” Each syllable is laced with a mix of detachment and irony.

Sandor slowly shakes his head, looking for something witty to answer. “Candles,” he finally says. “I want candles. Feeling and touching are good, but you will bring me some candles. The Others take me, I intend to see every fucking detail, I need to see _all_ of you.”

Her gaze, drifting from his eyes to his groin makes him realize he’s as hard as rock. “Shall I fetch these candles now?”

“Please.”

She brushes past him, opens the door and walks to her bedchamber; when she comes back shortly after, she’s carrying half a dozen candles - some used, some new - and she places them next to Sandor’s only candle, in the niche above his bed. Silence ensues as she lites them, one by one. _What’s happening behind her high forehead?_ He’d wager she’s already anticipating the next step, the crumpled clothes on the floor, the caresses and the moans.

The second she turns to him again, he realizes he’s about to leap into the unknown. Never did he imagine he would find himself in such a situation. _Bugger me, I don’t know what I'm about to do._

“So what now ?” Sansa asks, closing the distance between them. Now he can smell her perfume.

“Take off your clothes.” On an impulse, he decides to see if he can unhinge her and to test his own limits: is he able to restrain himself from touching her - if only for a moment?

Sansa deft fingers already undo her belt, then reach behind her to get rid of the pale dress wrapping her curves. Each breath escaping his lips seems more labored than the last and when the dress is but a silky pool on the wooden floor, his nails dig deep in his palms. Her arms fall to the sides and she keeps her back straight: she doesn’t try to hide herself and only her small clothes prevent him from seeing her lower belly.

“Small clothes too,” he growls.

Her apparent docility should please him or make him eager to reassure her; it however encourages him to demand even more, to push her boundaries. In King’s Landing he knew how much a whore asked for each service, but what does a honest woman agree to do in bed? How far does she go? He doesn’t have the slightest idea. Are a highborn lady’s boundaries different from the other women? What he saw in King’s Landing proved some noblewomen hardly have boundaries. Still… Sansa Stark is not any woman and she’s different from the highborn girls he met. Throughout the years, she has remained a mystery and he feels like tonight's the night he has a chance to unravel this mystery. _Am I a fool to think that, by taking her, I will know who she is, deep down?_

When he asks her to undo her hair, she complies, never breaking eye contact. She never says a word, but he’s sure she wonders why he still has his breeches on.

“Climb on the bed. Lean on the pillows. Now show me what you did in this bed the other day.”

Her deep frown forces a smile out of him. _Don’t pretend. You know what I’m talking about._ Her lack of reaction nevertheless gives him no other choice than to insist. “Remember that afternoon when I found you asleep in my bed? You denied it, but I know you touched yourself, right here, in this bedroom. I smelled it.” He’s not even sorry to confess, in hardly veiled terms, he got down on his knees and sniffed the sheets like the dog he is. Sansa blushes.

“It’s a bit late to keep denying it, don’t you think? You already spread your legs for me. What good is it to lie to a man you’ve laid with?”

She shoots him a glare. “Do you always need to make things look filthy?”

“The world is a filthy place, girl,” he snorts. “Your spread legs however were the most beautiful things I’d seen lately. Coarse language doesn’t mean the other night is any less memorable. Now look at me in the eye and tell me you didn’t touch yourself on my bed.”

The abrupt rise and fall of her chest and her reddening cheeks make her agitation all the more obvious yet she remains silent. Two pillows support her back; however, instead of reclining on them she seems ready to jump on her feet to slap him in the face - like she did on the rooftop. She keeps staring at him although it’s clear the debate within the confines of her mind goes on. Shall she admit what she did or keep denying it? At some point, he wonders if tears are not welling in her eyes. The little bird is proud. She most likely gathered her courage to invite him in her bed the other day: is there some courage left to confess what she did in Sandor’s bedroom?

A sharp intake of breath and all of a sudden her gaze changes: she looks past him as her fingers - curled in a fist and resting on the sheet so far - move up to her breast. Slowly she traces the line of the areola. Her nipples are hard; she pinches one of them nonetheless, exhaling and tilting her head back. As she keeps caressing her breasts, Sansa seems to forget he’s here, watching her, restraining himself to touch her for now. The feeling she’s indifferent to him is almost painful so he soon growls: “Look at me.”

The woman reclining on the pillow almost jumps and looks up at him. At first she obviously struggles to hold his gaze; after some time, being under his scrutiny seems to spur her and she kneads her breasts harder. The way she now arches her back, rocks her hips forward betrays her excitation and drives him mad.

“Is it all you did to yourself?” he asks abruptly.

Sansa freezes and for a second he fears he scared her for good; is she going to pick up her clothes and run off? Astonished, he sees her unhurriedly shaking her head. There’s something utterly enticing in her silent answer: a childish gesture looking suddenly provocative because she’s naked and manages to hold his gaze.

At this point, her legs are still closed and she doesn’t spread them when her right hand travels down her belly to reach her folds. His cock twitches as she starts pleasuring herself while robbing him of the sight he longs for. The moan escaping her lips is killing him. After a short while, she reaches behind her to push away the pillows, lies down on the mattress and opens her legs, inch by inch until he can see _all_ of her: the red curls, her slit and her fingers _playing_ there. Her moaning becomes louder and soon his hands move of their own accord, undoing the laces of his breeches, pushing the fabric down his ankles.

The second the mattress depresses next to her, she stops touching herself and contemplates him for a second. As he leans over her, he realizes they breathe in unison, their gasps being the only sound audible in the bedroom. Propping himself on his arm, he looks down at her, his thin dark hair brushing her forehead. Not a word is exchanged as he lies on one side next to her, to replace her fingers with his. Hands touch over Sansa’s lower belly, before she removes hers with a sigh. She doesn’t protest when his finger enters her yet she bites her lower lip, as if she restrained herself from moaning. The rock of her hips doesn’t fool him though. _You want more. You need more and so do I._

Ban tenderness. Forget all the crazy things his old self wanted to tell the little bird when he was in his cups, and all the gentle, almost affectionate gestures the gravedigger of Quiet Isle thought about on his pallet. This is an agreement, a bloody agreement that will end badly if he’s careless. _Men take the lead. Go ahead, take the lead._ He drags her to the center of the bed, eliciting a tiny cry of surprise, then he spreads her legs wide, rubs his cock against her slit and pushes his hips. This is all he ever wanted: Sansa naked underneath him with her red hair fanning out across the mattress, her tight cunt around his cock. The fact she hangs on to him, with her legs and her arms, feels unfamiliar and reminds him to ban any tender gestures but he buries the thought away. _Later._ He intends to fuck her until they both find their release. Nothing matters now except his hips rocking against hers and her legs wrapped around his middle - as if she wanted him to stay inside her forever.


	10. Leery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t even put into words what he feels when she resists him or when she provokes him like she’s doing now. There’s anger and surprise and excitement; he can feel anticipation too. Layers of feelings he tries to strip away because they cover the only thing he’s rather comfortable with: his lust for Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for not updating in a long time.  
> Edited by the amazing Underthenorthernlights.  
> The same warnings apply: you can expect the same dark tone as in the previous chapters. Warning for adult themes too.

The old servant knows something: he sees it in her narrowed eyes. Girri never looked like she really feared him but now she doesn’t even lower her eyes when he moves past her and her distrust is plain to see. _Bloody crone. What is the extent of her knowledge?_

Did Sansa open up to the old woman or did she keep their couplings secret? Sandor didn’t explicitly forbid her to tell Girri; he assumed the little bird wouldn’t brag about fucking a man who’s fifteen years older and whose face is as comely as a gargoyle’s. He and Sansa only made small talk after their second night together so what is going on in Sansa’s head remains a mystery for the best part. He acknowledges he was a fool to believe bedding her would allow him to read her mind. Mayhaps he knows a little more about what she likes in bed by now, but her thoughts, her fears and her emotions are disappointingly out of his reach.

Is it a surprise if images of Sansa - alternatively fully dressed and naked - appear as soon as he closes his eyelids? All day long, she’s on his mind and her name is on his tongue, like a song, a prayer or a secret he’d easily blurt out.

Sandor feels the suspicious gaze of the other sellswords on him as they stride the cobbled streets of the harbor city. What do they see in him? Is he any less closemouthed or sullen since he bedded the little bird? He thought that behaving like he used to - keeping his distance and glaring at them - would suffice. It doesn’t. The usually silent Volantene keeps glancing at him over his shoulder and whispers with Xulah, the mighty warrior from the Summer Islands. As for the third sellsword, Avero, the Tyroshi with a birthmark on his forehead, Sandor always felt like he was nosy so he’s not surprised to find his eyes on him. What do they all see in him? Did they notice a change? If so, did they inform Collio Cletis? The man he works for seems too busy to bother about such things; Sandor however thinks Collio Cletis is the kind of man who pretends not to see but pays attention to everything. _Bugger them all: what I do under my roof is my business, not theirs._

As the shadows grow longer in the streets of Tyrosh, Sandor anticipates the moment the night to come. Will Sansa come to him? Will he be able to restrain himself to knock at her door if she doesn’t?

In the end, it all comes down to this: is he able to respect the rules he imposed on Sansa? When she was in his bed, the night before, he lied on his back and was unable to sleep for hours. A part of him wanted to touch Sansa and to make sure she was real by wrapping an arm around her and holding her close. At some point, he almost gave in because he heard her even breathing and convinced himself it was less dangerous: if she was asleep she would not notice his gesture. The debates went on in the confines of his mind, until he decided that no, it was not safe, because he had told her this was not the kind of story people write songs about, but an arrangement, and nothing else. Ban tenderness, that was what he needed to keep in mind. Words and good resolutions couldn’t quench his thirst for the little bird though and he finally turned his head to smell Sansa’s hair as he couldn’t or didn’t want to hold her. That was how he fell asleep mere hours before dawn, his nostrils full of her scent, his arms empty.

The small procession - Xulah and the Volantene followed by a slave holding Collio Cletis’ umbrella, the fat merchant himself, then Sandor and Avero bringing up the rear - slowly makes their way toward Collio Cletis’ mansion where two servants open to them. Cletis walks straight to his apartments while the servants offer his sellswords a bitter-tasting piss local people drink piping hot as if it was tea. As the men stood or walked in the sun for the whole day, they eagerly gulp their hot drink, at the risk of burning their mouth, before collapsing on the benches of the garden, close to the fountain. Only Sandor leaves after draining his cup, under the others’ scrutiny. _Bugger them and their prying eyes, I want my little bird._

Although a day under the relentless sun of Tyrosh took its toll on him, he hurries through the alleys leading to the house he shares with Sansa, sometimes grumbling about the lazy Tyroshis who stroll along the marketplace: he longs so much for her presence he can't tolerate sluggishness. Watch her, breathe in her scent, imagine what it will be like at night if she knocks at his door: these are the things that obsess him. He spent his day waiting for the moment he’d see her in the doorway, holding his gaze, ready to join him for the night.

The sun is low when he opens the thick door separating the house from the outside, then crosses the small yard. The kitchens are empty but he hears Sansa humming. Three more steps and he’s on the threshold of the solar. He stops there and drinks in the sight of Sansa bending over the table, studying what looks like a map. She has her back to him and the gray dress she wears reveals the curves of her arse. Her red hair is piled on her head but some strands cover the nape of her neck, making him want to bury his nose there. The humming goes on until she notices his presence. She freezes, swivels her head towards him and straightens her back.

“Girri needed to buy garlic for supper. She went outside, she shouldn’t be long,” she said, pre-empting his question.

Sandor takes a step forward, then another one. His moves are deliberately slow and he can feel how Sansa’s breathing suddenly changes. They’re alone in the house and he feels like a beast lying in wait for his prey.

He closes the distance between them and motions his head towards the map: “Where did you get this?”

“I bought it.” Her voice is tinged with apprehension as she answers, glancing at his face, then turning slightly to the map. “I need a map of Westeros to follow what’s happening out there. Did you hear the rumors?”

“Which rumors?”

“After… difficult beginnings, Aegon Targaryen apparently gains ground on Westeros. It is said he defeated the Lannisters in the Stormlands. At great cost, but he nonetheless defeated them. Right here.” She pauses to point at the peninsula on the uneven surface of the map, then goes on: “I heard it while I was walking near the marketplace with Girri. That’s when I decided to buy a map. Unfortunately, the Freys and the Boltons still rule the Vale and the North, according to the news I heard.”

Sandor exhales a deep sigh. “You should be careful when you’re outside.”

“I am careful. I don’t go to places I don’t know and Girri always stays with me.”

Maybe his gaze annoys her because she keeps her back to him; he lets his eyes linger on the nape of her neck, on her shoulders and on her spine. The gray dress covers most part of her back but it’s almost see-through.

He’s already half-hard when he asks: “This boy Aegon, is he really Rhaegar’s son?”

“People say he is.”

“He would be a perfect suitor for you.”

She sighs. “I don’t need a suitor.”

“No,” Sandor growls. “What you need is quite different.” With that, he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close. A tiny cry of protest escapes her lips as her hands instinctively land on his forearm. There’s no way she misses his hard cock against her arse. He feels her shuddering in his arms, like the trapped little bird she is.

“What are you doing?”

“I want you now,” he rasps, regardless of all the rules he imposed on her - and on him.

One hand cups her breast while the other moves down her belly.

“Girri’s about to come back,” she trails off.

There’s a languor in her tone that troubles him: is it a sign she wants him as much as he wants her or is it pure coquetry? All of a sudden, he decides she wants to say no to him but she’s just not brave enough to do so. _Hence this feeble excuse._ He lets go of her.

“Suit yourself, girl. I’ll be upstairs.” If she’s not ready to lift her skirts for him, he’ll go to his room, alone with his inner rage. He angrily climbs the stairs and slams the door behind him.

_What_ _is_ _wrong_ _with_ _you_ , _dog_ ? He’s just broken the rules he explained at great length the other night. His lack of consistency is so obvious it sickens him. _How can I be so dull-witted? I can’t even respect the rules I created ?_ Exasperated, he unfastens his belt and let it drop to the floor, then he reaches back behind his shoulders and tugs the tunic over his head. The fabric falls to the floor too: if only he could dispose of his worries as easily as he took off his tunic.

The same seething anger glistens in his eyes as his heavy boots hurtle across the room. After dragging his now bare feet to the small table where he keeps a jug of water and a bowl, he splashes water on his face, clinging to the idea it might help him see more clearly into it. Droplets of water slowly trickle down his face and he watches through the large window. Beyond the roofs of the harbor city, orange and red hues illuminate the sky, right above the horizon. It looks just like any sunset in any harbor city - breathtaking and serene - the apparent quiescence of the view offering a sharp contrast with his inner turmoil…

Someone knocks at his door, raising him from his thoughts and adding to the confusion in his mind. _What in seven hells does she want now? Or is the old servant?_

Whoever is behind this door took his grunt as an invitation to come in, for the door opens slowly while he turns around. The little bird is there, her unease palpable as she smoothes nonexistent wrinkles on her skirt.

“What is it?” His impatient tone makes her eyes widen for a second, before she regains her composure.

“You know why I’m here,” she whispers.

He smirks. “Do I?”

Instead of answering, Sansa closes the door behind her and holds his gaze. _Aren’t we bold, now?_ Her blue eyes, once filled with dreams, almost challenge him. “Shall I ask you for forgiveness for not responding favorably when you groped me downstairs?” she taunts.

He can’t even put into words what he feels when she resists him or when she provokes him like she’s doing now. There’s anger and surprise and excitement; he can feel anticipation too. Layers of feelings he tries to strip away because they cover the only thing he’s rather comfortable with: his lust for Sansa Stark.

“No doubt you’ll find a way to make up for it, girl,” he growls. “Take off your clothes.”

Her gestures are unhurried and steady as she undresses; her body looks pale in the golden light coming from outside and her red locks cascade down over her shoulders after she removes the pins securing her hair. Once more, the urge to push her boundaries overwhelms Sandor and when she locks eyes with him again, silently asking what is next, he says: “Get on your knees.”

A slightly sharper intake of breath shows her apprehension but she complies nonetheless. Even naked, even kneeling on the wooden floor, she remains beyond his reach and he should bloody remember it. She might shudder - because she doesn’t know what he’s up to - but she intimidates him probably more than he intimidates her. Never did he realize better than now his orders and his growls are just an act.

Sandor plants himself in front of her before undoing the laces of his breeches and freeing his hard cock. The notion her mouth is so close to his manhood drives him mad.

“I never done this.” She sounds poised but the second she looks up at him, he sees utter panic in her eyes.

He shrugs. “Told you you can always grab your clothes and go back to your room.”

Sansa snaps her eyes closed as if she was in pain before opening them again. “I didn’t say I... refused to do it. I said I never done this before.”

“Do you want to?” The words escape his half-burned lips and when he realizes he sounds like a bloody knight in shining armor, asking her if she agrees to suck his cock, it’s too late to take them back.

She arches an eyebrow at his question - thus showing she didn’t expect this - but in the end she nods.

His mad brain filled many sleepless nights with these images - undone red hair and Sansa’s tongue licking the head of his cock but never did he imagine he’d guide her through this. He wraps her hand around his cock, tells her to lick first then to take him in her mouth. If her moves are tentative and even awkward, he knows she’s doing her best to please him; above all, he marvels at the sensation of Sansa’s mouth and tongue on his cock. _Mayhap the Seven exist after all… Maybe they exist and they’re making fun of me. They’re giving me everything I ever wanted to take it back from me in a while. Might as well enjoy it before it is over._

Her tongue insists on the underside of his cock - despite her lack of experience, she pays enough attention to his grunts of pleasure to recognize what feels good and what doesn’t. She sucks him and flicks her tongue against the head of his cock until he stills her movements.

Sansa gives him an inquiring look. “Climb on the bed,” he whispers. Why would he come in her mouth when he can come inside her? He knows exactly how he wants to take her now.

As always, she does as she is told. Her supple body moves across the room and she lays down on the bed; he gives a yank at his breeches and he’s soon naked too. In two strides he’s by the bed and he lets his eyes linger on Sansa’s body, taking in her pretty mouth, her hard nipples and the red curls between her legs.

He slowly shakes his head. “Not like this. Get on your knees, with your back to me.”

Again, her eyes widen but she doesn’t say anything, making him wondering what’s going on in her head. Is she mentally insulting him? Does she blame him for giving her orders? Did she enjoy what she just did to him?

Silent as ever, she kneels on the mattress, turning her back to him; in the meanwhile, he climbs on the bed too and positions himself right behind her. Red locks partly hide her back and it’s only when he sweeps her hair over one shoulder that he sees goosebumps on her skin.

“Afraid?” he asks.

“I- I don’t know. Maybe.” These are not the words of an innocent girl who never shared a man’s bed; when she swivels her head and glances at him over her shoulder, he sees a woman who knows what is going to happen but can’t decide if she still wants to do it or not.

“I’m going to take you when you’re on all fours. Did Lord Hardyng use to take you this way?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“You can always go back to your-”

“No,” she cuts him off. “I’ll stay.” She gives him another look over her shoulder. “I trust you.”

_I never asked for your trust!_ Suddenly he feels taken aback: she offers him something he never asked for and the more he thinks about it, the more it looks like a poisoned chalice. What is he going to do with her trust? What does trust have to do with it in the first place? _This is an arrangement and that’s all; there’s no room for trust and all this nonsense._

Despite his annoyance, he pulls her close and buries his face in her hair. “Be a good girl and I swear I’ll do whatever you want.” He feels her head nodding against his cheek.

No matter how he wants to fuck her, _something_ he can’t quite put the finger on makes him tend to her needs first. His free hand cups her breast, eliciting a shy moan, then he pinches her nipple. Her body is flushed against his as he keeps massaging her breasts, but soon his hand travels down her belly and he slips a finger between her folds. She’s so bloody wet he tells himself she probably enjoyed sucking his cock more than he expected. Her breathing quickens and the pace changes as he inserts a finger inside her; his hips now cradle hers. As pleasurable as it is, as exhilarating as Sansa’s moaning can be, he needs more.

He breaks their embrace and with a light push on Sansa’s shoulder, he makes her get on all fours. _I trust you_ , she said. The Others take him if he knows what that means but at least, she doesn’t protest when he spreads her legs wider and places himself at her opening. _I trust you._ These silly words play in his head and almost prevent him from enjoying the moment. Sansa’s round arse offered to him is quite a sight though. One thrust and he’s inside her. The noises she makes sound more like a groan though; he could ignore it and just keep going, but he restrains himself, although he can’t explain why, and slows the pace until she moans again.

_This is so good. Why is it so good?_ It’s not only the intense sensation he’s experiencing, it has something to do with what he sees when he looks down at her - her perfect arse, her spine arched and her red locks bouncing with every thrust - and beyond this, he can’t help thinking that he’s transgressing, that somehow he brings her low. He’s taking her like the dog he is, and it’s quite strange she didn’t run away at once.

On an impulse he leans forward to cover her entirely, nose buried in her hair, fingers interlaced with hers; as she trembles underneath him he places one tentative kiss on her neck. Why does it feel so good? Does knowing she probably feels helpless in this position make it even better? In one swift movement he straightens his back; hands placed on her hips, he resumes his thrusts until his head tosses back, until he can’t think straight, until a wave of pleasure overwhelms him. He collapses on her, then rolls on his back and tries to catch his breath. In the periphery of his vision, Sansa shifts too and finally lays flat on her back.

His gasping fills the room for long seconds. A glance through the window confirms night is falling. They’d need a candle or two - unless they decide, by an unspoken agreement, that darkness makes them more comfortable with each other. _She said she trusted me and I took her when she was on all fours._ Realization brings back guilt and guilt suddenly reminds him of his promise.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he trails off. “You can ask me whatever you want and I’ll do it.” He avoids her gaze and stares at the ceiling.

As she first remains silent, he wonders what will be her request and if there were gods in heaven, he’d beg them to make her want another fuck. _She didn’t come, after all; what else can she ask for, really?_

A long sigh escapes her lips before she swivels her head to look at him. Sandor’s eyes reluctantly meet hers; he can’t see much of her face, but her tone is even when she asks: “Hold me in your arms.”

He scoffs at this idea: it seems so odd, so out of place, that he can’t help laughing.

“What is so funny about it, pray tell?”

“It’s- I don’t do that, little bird.”

“You don’t do that?” The hint of haughtiness in her tone instantly irks him. “Well, that’s what men do.”

Implying he’s not as manly as he thinks he is is petty: gaping, he frowns at her and racks his brains to find something that would put her in her place. Unfortunately for him, his mind has gone blank.

“You promised to do whatever I asked for,” she goes on. “Does holding me break the rules of our agreement? If so, I’d like you to explain to me how and why.”

Sandor curses under his breath. _She’s cunning._ He remembers how badly he wanted to hold her the night before. _At least I won’t need an excuse to wrap my arms around her._ This should delight him but the excitement ebbs as he realizes how Sansa turns the tables on him. She intends to seize every opportunity he gives her to turn this agreement to her advantage; small acts of resistance to remind him that two can play that game. _How come I didn’t see this before?_

Defeat has the strangest taste as he contemplates at the ceiling and finally offers, opening one arm: “Come here, then.”

Soon he feels her head on his chest and her slender fingers moving across his ribcage; he wraps his arm around her, lets his hand rest in the dip of her waist. _Fuck, it feels so strange._ Can she hear his erratic heartbeats?

“Supper must be ready by now,” he says, eager to break the silence. Now he’s reacting like the scared little bird she used to be, chirping foolishly every time he frightened her.

Sansa’s breath tickles him when she answers: “I’m not hungry.”

There are a couple of bawdy jokes he could make about her not being hungry after what he made her do to him, yet he keeps them for himself. Why? He doesn’t have the slightest clue.

Defeat, today, has the strangest taste: the taste of something he always wanted and always feared at the same time.


	11. Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You Westerosi knights pride yourselves on serving women, you don’t even expect them to give you the reward you long for… There’s a tale old women used to tell children when I was younger: the gardener’s dog. Is it known, across the Narrow Sea? The gardener’s dog is the example of pointless jealousy. Neither does the dog eat the cabbages nor does he let the others eat. Just like the gardener’s dog, you fiercely protect your lady against her enemies, you make sure no man approaches her, but you don’t touch her, you don’t get to taste her.”
> 
> Tight-lipped, Sandor gazes at the Tyroshi. _You speak well and you have a high opinion of yourself but you’re a cunt all the same and you don’t know you’re sorely mistaken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting!  
> What happens in this update takes place about two weeks after chapter 10. There’s a trope in SanSan fanfiction that might not be your cup of tea: the ‘moonblood trope’. A bunch of stories show Sansa having a moonblood when Sandor’s around and being rather awkward about it… To be honest, I’m a bit wary of tropes like this one but I used it here to challenge myself and see what I could do with it. It also says something about the growing relationship between Sandor and Sansa.  
> Written with love, but not edited by a beta reader: if you spot a mistake, please tell me.

For years routine has been useful to numb his senses, to quell his insecurities.

In King’s Landing, Sandor Clegane’s days were all alike: he got ready for the day, strode to the boy king’s apartments, waited for his orders and if nothing special was to happen that day, he trained for at least a couple of hours before going back to his master and following him, wherever the boy was going. Bored to death, jaded, he used to scowl at his surroundings to disguise the void he felt inside him. Routine has its perks, though: no need to think, no need to make decisions. Routine is as comfortable as an old pair of calf leather boots.

In Tyrosh, he has discovered that routine can be something entirely different, something one envisions with a contented sigh. Routine can make his heart - assuming he has a heart - beat faster. _Fuck, I’m softening…_ No matter how hard he tries to frown at the notion that routine can be pleasant now, thanks to their arrangement, a smile pulls up the corners of his lips.

The little bird changes everything and his days are split in two parts: the blessed hours spent in her company and the ones going on and on, as he endures her absence. A very long time ago, when he was but a boy in Clegane’s Keep, he used to do the same and he split his days in two: there were the moments when Gregor was away and those when his older brother came back to the keep, leaving chaos in his wake. At this period, he could say his days revolved around his brother’s threatening presence, that the sound of a horse's hooves made his blood run cold. A hatred so deep it makes one’s life revolve around the absence of another person: that is what he experienced so far. Never did he think his life would turn around someone because they make every moment different - better.

The hours spent in Collio Cletis’ service drag on and on, yet they’re filled with an abundance of thoughts, memories, interrogations that all bring him back to her, to her curves, to her blue eyes, to the things she said the night before and to those she didn’t. To the taste of her skin, fresh and sometimes salty under his tongue. From dawn to dusk, his days are filled with anticipation. Anticipation, not hope, and there’s a huge difference. Hope is dangerous: it makes fools think good things can happen. He has decided that anticipation is what makes him quicken his pace on his way back to their small house. _I’m eager to see her and to take her, is all._

This evening, like the days before, he exhales deeply as he opens the door leading to the small yard. It’s something akin to a sigh of relief as he knows all the chores of the day are behind him; the _good_ part of the day starts now. The distance from the yard to the solar is so short he hardly has enough time to wonder if the little bird will make him wait til after supper or she’ll join him upstairs now, like she sometimes does. When he stops in the doorframe, the map of Westeros is rolled out on the table, but Sansa is sitting in an armchair, sewing something that looks like a new tunic for him. _I have plenty of tunics already, why doesn’t she make herself a shift I’d gladly help her take off?_

She greets him with a smile, then asks how was his day. _Boring. My days are as boring as my nights are intense._ Sandor shuffles to the shelf where he knows he’ll find some wine and a cup. He answers her question with a shrug and walks back to her, sipping his wine.

“Did you hear some news from Westeros?” he inquires, motioning his head towards the map.

“I can’t say I heard anything of interest about the situation in Westeros, but I know where I can get information now: do you ever go to the place where Girri buys wine? The owner is an old man whose sons often travel across the Narrow Sea to buy Dornish wine. Every time we speak, I understand more of what he says and if I keep improving my Valyrian, I will soon be able to speak to him without Girri translating for me.”

“Does he seem reliable?”

“I think he is.” As he frowns deeply, she adds: “Would you rather see me spending my time in some inn next to the harbor, amongst drunk sailors?”

He sighs. “Of course not! I’m concerned about your safety, that’s all.” As her eyes drift back to the tunic she’s sewing, he observes her face closely. There’s something different about the way she’s sitting in the armchair today; she’s not slumped in it, but he’s so used to see her sitting with her back straight he suddenly wonders if the stifling heat of Essos made her as lazy as the locals.

“Is something wrong, little bird?”

Surprised, she shakes her head. He gazes at her, trying to decide if she’s holding back something or if she’s genuinely confused by his question, then he adds: “I’ll be upstairs... If you _need_ me.”

These words are the same he uttered two days ago. To his great surprise, Sansa then put her book away, got up and followed him in his bedroom and in his bed. The mere evocation of what he did to her and what she did to him that night makes his cock twitch… but Sansa doesn’t seem inclined to do the same today: she nods, tells him that Girri bought some fish for supper and she lets him walk to the stairs. He’s disappointed, but he won’t let her know. _You can’t win every time you play, dog._

* * *

His blood is up: he can tell by the way he fidgets on his seat, waiting for the supper to be over and for Girri to disappear in the kitchen. Wine usually helps dulling his senses, but tonight it seems that a wine barrel wouldn’t be enough: with every swirl of the wine in his cup he finds himself imagining her naked, either on her back or on her knees.

Is she aware of that? No matter how hard she tries to keep the conversation going - she’s still talking about the future of Westeros and the chances of the dragon queen to conquer the Seven Kingdoms - he answers her with one-word responses. She must have noticed the hunger in his eyes; surely, the blush coloring her cheeks has something to do with the insistence of his stare.

When the old servant retreats to the kitchen, it becomes more and more difficult to behave well. He used to lecture himself about the rules he imposed on her and how he was unable to respect them, but he’s past caring now. _I’ll have plenty of time to lament on my failures tomorrow: now I just want her._ His heart beats faster as he pushes himself from his seat, then closes the distance between them. Sansa looks out of the corner of her eye but she doesn’t move and only sits up; slowly, he walks around her chair and at this very moment the idea he’s playing with her nerves makes him smile. Hands on the back of her seat, he leans forward until he can whisper in her ear: “Will you join me tonight?” _I don’t know how I can handle it if you say no._

Intoxicated by her smell - if he should ever praise these bloody Tyroshi, he’d say their perfumes make the little bird’s skin even more tantalizing - he doesn’t notice at first that she’s silent, then, when he realizes it, he freezes.

“I’d like to, Sandor, but I can’t.”

_How come you can’t?_ He raises to his full height and steps back, observing the nape of her neck. Slowly, with something akin to sheepishness, she swivels her head to make eye contact with him.

“Don’t look at me like this!” she whispers. “I am not feeling very well.”

“Are you sick?” he asks, suspicion making him frown.

“Not sick, strictly speaking. My-” She pauses, closes her eyes briefly then adds with reluctance: “My moon blood is on me.”

His mind goes blank. Sandor wishes he could find the proper answer, but as a hush falls over the solar, he sees her trying not to react to his widened eyes and gaping mouth. His good cheek might be reddening. _Her moon blood? What am I supposed to do with this information?_

“Well…” Sansa says to break the embarrassing silence, “Men usually don’t like to be around women in these circumstances, I guess… I’d better go upstairs. I bid you goodnight.”

There’s the rustling of her silk gown, the sound of light footsteps on the wooden floor and in the staircase, then she’s gone. Only the lingering scent of her perfume remains in the air.

* * *

_Her moon blood…_ It took him an awkward conversation to realize he’s never lived with a woman and therefore acts like a green boy when confronted with daily life problems. The Sansa he dreamed of in King’s Landing and in the Quiet Isle was a perfect creature who was always willing, never sick nor indisposed.

_Does it hurt?_ The question springs to his mind as he turns for the hundredth time in his bed, unable to find sleep. As a warrior, he knows well what it’s like to bleed and when he was younger, he even watched with a kind of morbid curiosity the red flow dripping out of his wounds. _But this? Every moon?_

During their trip to Essos and after their arrival in Tyrosh, her moon blood has been on her too, but then, he chose not to see any of the signs; Sansa was completely silent about it, making it easier for him to plead ignorance. Their arrangement changes everything.

_She’s in pain, most likely._ He remembers how her bearing was slightly different during supper. _Did she take something to alleviate the pain?_ He tosses and turns in his bed until he realizes he will lie awake all night unless he does something about it. He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and puts his breeches on. _She will probably hate me if I wake her up, but… I don’t care if she hates me, do I?_

He tiptoes to her bedroom, quietly opens the door and closes it behind him. Sansa moans softly in her sleep, but it’s only when he crawls in between the sheets that she wakes up.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. Her sleep-induced tone, surprised but not angry, relieves him. If the room wasn’t dark, she could see his crooked smile.

“Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep, is all.”

She makes some room for him, feels around to caress his cheek in a soothing way. Sandor allows his muscles to relax and turns on his side to face her. Silence stretches and he wonders if she’s already dozing off until her hand slides down his belly and tugs at the laces of his breeches.

“You couldn’t sleep? Or do you expect me to-”

He gently takes her hand and places it back to her side. “I don’t expect you to do anything. Let me sleep here tonight: that’s all I want.” Another silence, filled with questions that burn his lips, until he adds: “Does it hurt?”

She sighs. “It’s not pleasant, but I’d lie if I said pain is excruciating… Having this conversation with you is so strange. Men usually don’t even want to hear about it.”

Does she feel him shrug against her shoulder? “I’m supposed to look after you. If you’re in pain, I need to know and I want you to tell me if I can do something about it.”

“Perhaps…” she trails off, grabbing his hand and placing it on her belly. “Warmth helps a little. It won’t be long, you know. Four, five days at the most, and it will be over…”

Is she trying to reassure him? His hand still on her belly, he wonders if his palm is sweaty or not. Maybe she’ll push his hand aside later, if the sensation of his hand  dampening her nightgown and making the fabric stick to her body annoys her.  

After the nights they spent together, it feels strange to touch her this way, without any intention to take her. Her belly softly rises and falls with every breath, revealing she’s ready to get back to sleep. There could have been a baby there, under his palm, but he insisted on giving her some moon tea. Images churn in his head and squeezing his eyes closed doesn’t make them vanish. Yes, there could have been a baby. His baby. He decides that he’s a bloody fool with crazy ideas, a fool who will be tired and grumpy at Collio Cletis’ mansion, the morning after.

* * *

 

When a servant told him Collio Cletis wanted to speak to him privately, Sandor wondered what the fat man wanted with him but he followed the servant inside the mansion, until the slave left him in a room with maps on the walls and a table littered with scrolls. He’s been waiting there that Collio Cletis condescend to tell him what is so important it can’t be said in front of the other sellswords and now he wonders for how long he’ll have to stand there. Exhaling a deep sigh, he lets his mind wander.

At dawn he woke up with his hand still on her belly and his hard cock pressed against her side. Sneak out of the bed and go back to his room, maybe to give himself some relief seemed the better option but the little bird didn’t allow him to do so. She made him stay, unlaced his breeches and said she wanted to take care of his needs. Somehow he wasn’t comfortable with this idea, because it wasn’t part of the arrangement, because he couldn’t please her in return, but had he ever thought of the arrangement the night before, when he deserted his bed to lie down by her side? No.

Sansa’s touch was enough to sway him. Her hand moved up and down on his manhood, until he gave up, lying down and soon tossing his head back in pleasure. After he found his release, as his eyes fluttered open, she was leaning over him, observing his face with curiosity, a smile playing about her lips. Was it smugness he saw in her eyes or was she genuinely happy to pleasure him? He couldn’t decide and even now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know how to read the look she gave him.

Feet shuffling down the hallway interrupt his reverie; Cletis soon comes in, closes the door and sits down in an armchair disappearing under cushions. The Tyroshi sighs noisily then beckons Sandor to sit down on some low bench which would be perfect for snotty-nosed children - it’s as uncomfortable as it can be for a man of his height, but Sandor remains impassive.

At first, the merchant asks him questions about the swordplay lessons Sandor gives to his son Lilio, about the other tasks he’s been assigned, about the other sellswords. Sandor’s replies are terse, just the way his father taught him to answer high-borns, when he was a boy. _High-borns will ask you questions but don’t ever imagine they give a rat’s arse about your opinion; it’s just a way to test the ground. Play your cards close to your chest - if you intend to play, that is._

If Sandor’s curt answers annoy him, Cletis doesn’t show any sign of frustration; the Tyroshi never breaks eye contact, the cushioned armchair allowing him to look down at the sellsword.

“If I remember correctly, my servant found a couple of houses for you when you arrived and you chose one of them. Are you satisfied with it?” A sudden change in Cletis’ tone, a twinkle in his eyes and Sandor realizes they’ve come to the part of the conversation that really interests the merchant.

“I am. Your servant’s help was precious.”

Cletis stares at him, stroking his colored beard, his features unreadable although his eyes shine with inquisitiveness.

“Yesterday I went on a walk with Avero, Xulah and the Volantene. You were here, giving my son his swordplay lesson, while the other sellswords escorted me.” He stands up, pours himself some wine without offering a cup to his guest, then sips it slowly.

_This man alone is as bloody theatrical as Oldtown’s  mummer’s shows._ He sets his jaw, keeping his thoughts for himself, like his father taught him.

“As it happens,” Cletis goes on, sitting down again, “we arrived in the street where my servant told me you live, so I became curious and we looked for your house. Tiny, but charming in a way… Oh, we didn’t knock at the door because we knew you weren’t there, but… we observed and we _listened_.”

Sandor’s fingers curl into fists. “We heard a woman’s voice, singing. I’m not much of a music lover, but I must say the voice was pretty enough to catch my attention. The lyrics too caught my attention because… I recognized the Common Tongue.” He pauses again, offers Sandor a smirk then adds: “At that moment, we were behind the house, near the courtyard, so I tried to see what kind of enchantress lived there. I left my sellswords, went to the house across the street, climbed the stairs after greasing the owner’s palm and... I wasn’t disappointed when I saw from the roof the courtyard of your house and the girl you seemingly want to hide from the rest of the world.”

It takes Sandor a huge effort not to throw himself on the man who sounds more and more like he mocks and challenges him. Trembling with rage, he grips the sides of the bench until his knuckles turn white.

“Red-haired and slender, a pale Westerosi girl, all alone in this tiny courtyard… When I saw her, I understood why you turned down my offer and refused to live here. I, for one, would turn down many offers for a beauty like her.” Cletis’ tone has changed, imperceptibly: the arrogance and the provocation that laced his words so far give way to a surprising melancholy.

“That’s also when I remembered a tale told by a customer of mine, almost a moon ago. You probably don’t remember this visit uptown, because for you Westerosi, Tyroshi mansions are all the same. He told me about his latest trip to Braavos and how two Westerosi knights had been spotted there. They were sent by one of your countless noble houses, one that has raised since the War of the Five Kings, and they were looking for a red-haired woman who belonged to one of the oldest noble families. They wanted her dead, obviously.”

Another sip of wine and Cletis sinks deeper into his armchair, his serious gaze confusing Sandor. “Assuming these two men are determined to find her, they’ll scour the Free Cities, one after the other, and at some point of their travels, they’ll arrive in Tyrosh. There’s always someone ready to talk to strangers as long as these strangers have money to-”

“Will you talk to them?” Sandor growls. “Do you think they’d believe you? This girl could be anyone.”

“A red-haired girl from Westeros, living on these shores, hiding herself? They’d want to believe me, if I ever decided to talk to them, but it’s not what I’m going to do. Who is she, anyway? Your wife?”

“No!” Sandor bolts from his seat, ready to hit the merchant.

“I won’t believe you if you explain to me she’s your younger sister.” Cletis’ tone is strangely calm. Unfazed, he bores into Sandor’s eyes. “You serve her.” It’s a statement, this time, rather than a question.

“You Westerosi knights pride yourselves on serving women, you don’t even expect them to give you the _reward_ you long for… There’s a tale old women used to tell children when I was younger: the gardener’s dog. Is it known, across the Narrow Sea? The gardener’s dog is the example of pointless jealousy. Neither does the dog eat the cabbages nor does he let the others eat. Just like the gardener’s dog, you fiercely protect your lady against her enemies, you make sure no man approaches her, but you don’t touch her, you don’t get to taste her.”

Tight-lipped, Sandor gazes at the Tyroshi. _You speak well and you have a high opinion of yourself but you’re a cunt all the same and you don’t know you’re sorely mistaken_ . The idea almost makes him smile. _I’ll let you believe you’re right about me and the little bird if only because it gives me an edge over you._

“Oh, you can glare at me, for all I care,” Cletis sighs. “When the assassins come, you’ll be happy to take shelter here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dog in the Manger is a theme rather common since the Greeks introduced it. In France, it's perhaps not as popular and we call this story the Gardener's Dog. I first came across this story in Balzac's _Le Député d'Arcis_ , and I instantly thought it would be interesting to associate Sandor with it.


	12. Obliging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s trapped. Everytime he offers to do whatever she’d like, she ensnares him with her blue gaze and apparently innocent requests. The more he struggles, the more the noose is tightening, he should bloody know it by now. _When did the little bird become a bird-catcher? When did I become her prey?_  
>  “Kisses?” He tilts his chin up.  
> “Kisses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a long time. Real life...
> 
> Edited by the amazing Ladycyprus.

Confronting Collio Cletis had been unpleasant; on his way home, Sandor imagined the conversation he needed to have with Sansa would be worse. What would she do? Would she cry?

He was so wrong.

One hour later, as he was facing Sansa in the solar of their small house, he admits to himself he misjudged her. She looks at him without anger, without protesting, then her eyes drift from her lap to the window of the solar and he’d give everything to know what she has in mind.

“It was a foregone conclusion,” she comments. With a sigh, she walks to the window and stays there, her pale hand on the wall, gazing past the window guards.

“There are two options. We can either leave Tyrosh and head to Volantis or even further, to Qohor. These buggers wouldn’t look for us in-”

She turns to face him. “I’m done running. I’m not running away again.”

“We can stay in Tyrosh, but not in this house. These men are no fools: they’ll observe us and attack during daytime, when I’m gone. You and the servant won’t have a chance against them. The merchant, Collio Cletis, he- he told me we were welcome to stay at his manse.”

When her pretty mouth opens she looks more like she’s gasping for air than eager to protest. Then she shakes her head as if she wanted to remove the thought. “Can’t we find another place?”

Sandor closes the distance between them. “Another place with thick walls, guarded doors and people ready to rescue you if I’m not there? Unless you know such a place exists in Tyrosh, little bird, there are only two valid choices: Volantis or the fat merchant’s house.”

Her eyes wander on his face, moving from the lines on his forehead to his mouth and from his good cheek to his burns. “You don’t like this idea, I can see it.”

“The Others take me, I hate the idea of living under his roof as much as you do. I hate his honeyed words, I hate the prying eyes of the sellswords I work with. We don’t have another choice, though.”

Her eyes fall to his chest and soon she grabs his upper arms.

“I swore to protect you, over there, in the Vale,” he rasps. “Do you remember?” If only the memories he’s conjuring could distract him from her touch and from her scent… As her fingers knead his biceps, he swallows hard. “Your decision, little bird. We leave Tyrosh or we move to Cletis’ mansion.”

“What does your instinct tell you about Collio Cletis, Sandor?” If the feeling of her head now resting against his chest isn’t enough, her question and her almost pleading tone reveal how much she leans on him. This notion makes him dizzy.

He snorts. “He’s a prick, and he will use his connections with you to commerce with Westeros when you’re in Winterfell again, but I don’t think he’d betray us. In the long run, he has more to gain in protecting you to ensure his business in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I’d rather go to Cletis’ mansion,” she says in a whisper.

Images of Cletis’ opulent house are racing through his mind: Collio Cletis smirking, the other sellswords peering at him askance, the servants muttering things in their gibberish… It might be a safer choice than running again knowing Sansa’s life is threatened; it will be no bed of roses, though. His arms hanging at his sides, he gazes straight ahead. Something in the way her fingers press into his flesh tells Sandor she’d like him to wrap his arms around her, maybe to kiss her, but he doesn’t give in. _Out of the question._ He doesn’t want to be the shit who doesn’t have any control over his cock - all the more so as he announces bad news and therefore could take advantage of her distress.

“These knights who want to kill me, did the merchant say who they are?” she asks. “No, he didn’t? I don’t think Cersei sent them. She’s too busy with the Targaryens…”

“He mentioned a noble family that has raised thanks to the War of the Five Kings.”

“The Freys. Or the Boltons.” She exhales deeply. “As long as I’m alive, I'm a threat for their power.”

_Bastards. They’ll never stop-_

Sansa shifts and now her body is flushed against his. A brief glance at her face confirms she knows what she’s doing: her blue eyes force him to gaze back at her.

“I need you,” she begs. _As if she needed to beg._

It’s too late and he knows he’s lost when she takes his hand and leads him upstairs.

* * *

That night after their coupling, he turns to her, takes in her naked body, her red hair fanning over the mattress. _Surrender._ That’s what she exudes, at this very moment: her body is relaxed, her chest heaves with every breath and she doesn’t feel the urge to cover her nakedness.

Two weeks ago, he warned Sansa he didn’t want her to wear a nightgown when they were in bed together, even after sex. She arched an eyebrow at him. _‘Another rule?’_ He retorted he’d tear her nightgown apart if she dared to put it on. _‘Maybe I’d like that,’_ she said, making his blood run faster. Since that night, she has never tested his limits by slipping into her nightgown after he fucked her. _Is it strange to feel flattered because she lets me watch her body as I please?_

The moon is already up in the sky so he growls: “Ask me whatever you want.”

As strange as it is, the silence following these words is always exciting because he can watch her pondering over his question, eyes fixed on the ceiling, sometimes biting her lower lip or stretching her limbs as if she was readying herself for what’s next. This time, she arches her back while stretching like a cat, closes her eyes briefly before swiveling her head towards him. Instead of giving her answer, she locks eyes with Sandor; for a second he feels like he can read her thoughts and what he reads puzzles him. _‘How well will that sit with Sandor?’_

“I want kisses,” she whispers.

_Kisses? You wish I’d kiss you more often? No, it’s something different: you think I don’t know how to kiss, don’t you?_

“My apologies if I’m not Loras Fucking Tyrell. He’d kiss you like the bloody knight of Flowers he is.”

Undeterred despite his reproachful tone, she explains: “Loras Tyrell can stay in Westeros or wherever he is. I want _your_ kisses.”

The flickering light of candles reveals his gaping mouth and there’s nothing he can do to deny his utter shock, soon replaced by the certainty she’s going to mock him. Once more she surprises him: no chuckle, no nasty remark to repay his grumpiness as she rolls on her side to face him.

“What explanation are you going to give me, this time?” she taunts him. “Don’t say that men like you don’t kiss women. You kissed me. In spite of my- my relative lack of experience, I know you enjoyed it.”

He’s trapped. Everytime he offers to do whatever she’d like, she ensnares him with her blue gaze and apparently innocent requests. The more he struggles, the more the noose is tightening, he should bloody know it by now. _When did the little bird become a bird-catcher? When did I become her prey?_

“Kisses?” He tilts his chin up.

“Kisses.”

With his heartbeat loud in his ears, he flips her onto her back and leans over her. For now she holds his gaze but he knows it won’t be long before she closes her eyes to abandon herself. His mouth hovers over hers as he breathes in her scent, relishes the tension she radiates as she waits for his kiss. His lips brush her nose, her cheek and whatever inch of skin they find until he decides she’s waited enough. Perhaps they’ve both waited enough for this to happen.

Whores’ mouths aren’t made for kissing, so he knows very well how inexperienced and clumsy he is; the little bird doesn’t complain though. She opens her mouth for him, flicks her tongue against his and the way she arches her back confirms this is exactly what she wanted. He breaks their embrace, wondering if she’d consider herself satisfied with this. A moan of protestation fills the room, so he resumes his task, pecking at her lips, then deepening their kiss again. Sandor lowers himself until his body is flushed with hers and he keeps kissing her for a minute or two. Soon enough the contact of her skin and the way her breasts press against his torso give him another idea.

Abandoning her mouth, he leaves a trail of kisses down her throat: the salty taste of her skin makes his tongue tingle and under his lips, he can feel the rise and fall of her chest. _Her heart beats fast._ It urges him to keep exploring and his mouth soon finds her hard nipple. A quick glance at her face confirms she’s enjoying herself: she bites her lip, eyes closed.

“Your tits make me regret the time I was a suckling babe,” he confides.

When he lifts his eyes again, she smiles, both amused and aroused. Her moaning spurs him even more. _Licking. Nibbling._ It always feels strangely pleasurable when he tends to her needs. He feels hard again but he won’t try anything before being sure he satisfied her.

With a wealth of precaution, Sandor pulls his head back, giving her nipple the lightest of tugs with his teeth. Mouth ajar, she meets his gaze.

“Please don’t stop.”

No he won’t. _Mayhap will I give you more than you bargained for…_ Another trail of kisses, down her stomach then past her navel, startles her.

Sansa props herself on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

“I’m kissing you,” he rasps. “Didn’t you ask for kisses?” His taunting isn’t meant to reassure her, only to heighten the tension he feels in her limbs as he gets closer and closer to her lower belly.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t know what he’s doing; he only heard about this in King’s Landing during one of those nights when casks of wine seemed bottomless. There was this lordling boasting about the women he had fucked - high-born ladies and servant girls indiscriminately - and how they all went crazy when he kissed and licked them _there_.

Now sitting on his heels, he opens her trembling thighs; at the sight of the red curls hiding her slit, he lets a low groan rumble from his throat. The sound of it makes Sansa squirm but his grip is firm. _I won’t let go of you, not before I’ve tried._

“Only kisses,” he whispers.

She inhales sharply.

“Didn’t you say you trust me?” Deep down the words she uttered the night he had her suck his cock made him uncomfortable and he hated how she sounded. He’d lie if he said he has the slightest qualm about using her words though; remorseless, he glances at her, knowing the little bird is too afraid to contradict herself to protest.

The second his lips touch the red curls, it’s as if the tension Sansa radiates spreads to him: he shivers, just like she does. Sandor breathes in her smell, different from the rest of her body, hesitates for a heartbeat, then flicks his tongue over the upper end of her slit. She’s wet. The way her back arches confirms he's’ doing right so he keeps licking the fleshy little pearl hidden by her folds, tasting her although she can’t help squirming under his ministrations. That curious smell… He has smelled it on his fingers after pleasuring her without recognizing it. _Caraway. She smells like caraway._ Isn’t it crazy that tasting her changes his perception? Her juices and his melt on his tongue as he laps her like the dog he is: sticking his tongue where his cock was a short while ago is the strangest idea ever. _Strange, aye, but who gives a shit about this as long as she’s enjoying herself?_ _Best do it the other way around though, next time…_

The little bird’s fingers tangle in his hair and her moaning never stops, neither when he slides one palm under the cheek of her arse nor when he rests one of her legs over his shoulder. Head tossing back in pleasure, she’s past caring and the way she seems to surrenders herself to his caresses, going so far as to buck her hips delights him. Better, it makes his blood run fast and he knows for sure he won’t be able to get some rest if he doesn’t tend to his own needs after this.

Sansa’s heels dig deep  in his back, proving she wants him even closer than he already is. The outside world fades away; at some point he could believe there’s only his mouth, Sansa’s cunt and the rhythmic movement of her hips responding to the flick of his tongue. Her thighs are the edge of his world for now and beyond their pale flesh, nothing exists. _Faster, deeper. She’s almost ready to come. What does she taste like when she comes...?_

Her release is so glorious, so loud he’s almost jealous; then he remembers where they are and he sighs. It’s a bloody miracle if the neighbors didn’t hear her.

Once she’s stopped moving and bucking her hips, he cautiously sits on his heels, observing her still trembling body. She’s such a sight he’d easily forget his plan to take her again if his cock wasn’t so hard. After a long while, she locks eyes with him and smiles. There’s no need to speak and Sandor wishes things were always just as easy as they are at this very moment.

There’s not the slightest hint of embarrassment in Sansa’s eyes as they wander down his torso and linger on his hard member, just the plain realization that he wants her. At no time does she try to draw her thighs closer or to hide her nakedness; her arms open, beckoning him to cover her body with his. _No need for words,_ he muses, settling himself between her legs. Her skin against his, a mere exchange of glances are more than enough.

* * *

Time is against them. They both know it, they both fear the arrival of the assassins the Freys or the Boltons sent. It’s been two days since he told Sansa what kind of threat awaits them.

Next to him, the little bird shifts and her hand pushes the sheets aside to casually rest on his naked thigh. “Does this man… Collio Cletis- Does he know about us?”

The fact Sansa’s mind returns to mundane questions so short after he fucked her never fails to surprise him. In three days’ time, they’ll leave the small house and move their belongings to Collio Cletis’ manse. He can’t help but clench his teeth every time something reminds him of it, like Sansa’s question just did.

“Do you picture me explaining Cletis you and I have an arrangement?” he sneers.

Sansa cringes at the word ‘arrangement’ but he decides to ignore it. “No, I don’t picture you explaining him _any of this..._ ” Her words inflect at the end of the sentence and he instinctively knows something’s amiss. Convinced the answer might be more disturbing than the question, he chooses not to think about it too much. The back of his head digs deeper in the pillow.

“Never miss an occasion to remind Cletis who you are and how you ought to be treated,” Sandor advises her, gazing at the whitewashed beam above his head. “Reminding him you’re a lady will prevent any tactless question. The bugger doesn’t need to know.”

“I was told affairs aren’t as frowned upon in Essos as they are in the Seven Kingdoms.”

He snorts. _Where is this conversation going?_ With a hint of impatience he sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and walks to the open window. The streets are quiet tonight and it’s cooling down, thanks to the sea breeze.

“We’ll keep a low profile at Cletis’ mansion, little bird.”

“Do you mean we need to put a halt to our… ‘arrangement’ once we leave this house?”

He’d be a fool if he didn’t notice the tension her voice exudes at this very moment. _I’d better reassure her._ “So long as we’re not in Winterfell and unless you want to bring it to a close, this arrangement will keep going.”

“I don’t want to bring it to a close.”

A part of him wants to run to the bed and hold her in his arms, yet his feet stay glued to the wooden floor. He turns to Sansa who’s lying on one side, her back to him now. _Is she angry at me? She bloody has every reason to be, I suppose._

His legs move of their own accord to the bed and he lies down, flat on his back first, then rolling onto one side and closing the distance between them. Her spine rests against his chest and the back of her legs touch him.

“What do you want me to do for you?” he asks her, trying to sound as casual as possible even though her obvious disappointment makes him want to yell and to smash things. At first he fears that she’d shy away from him; she shifts, rolling on her back so that he almost leans over her.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“What the fuck- What do you mean, ‘stay’? I’m not going anywhere, girl, this is _my_ bed.”

Sansa bites her lip in an almost childish way before replying: “Stay with me for one day. You work all day, I only see you at night. When was the last time Collio Cletis give you a day off?”

It’s true he didn’t have much time for himself since he hired himself out as a sellsword. There was this religious festival, a while ago… It might have been a moon after they arrived in Tyrosh, but since then he worked every single day.

As his eyes linger on Sansa’s naked form, he can think of one or two things he’d like to do if he had a day off...

“A day off?” he nonetheless growls. “What for?”

Sansa chuckles. “You could get some rest. And Stranger is getting mad in the stables: he could use a ride outside of Tyrosh.” A brief pause, a sigh and she goes on: “We could spend some time together.”

_Here we are._ “That we can do, girl,” he rasps. “You just forgot one detail: Cletis. What is he going to say?”

For a second, he thinks it will take the wind out of her sails but he understands his mistake the second she shrugs. “You’ll coax him to give you a day off: I know you’ll succeed. You can be very convincing: you convinced me to accept this ‘arrangement’, after all.”

_Touché._ As his eyes drift away from her face, Sandor racks his brains to find something worth saying. Deep down he agrees to this, but he doesn’t want to sound like she defeated him. Then, when he finds the right words, he looks at her straight in the eye.

“So you want me to stay? Fine. Make me stay.”

His challenging tone lights a spark in Sansa’s eyes and suddenly, the woman next to him sits up, swings her legs to the side and tosses her hair over one shoulder in one swift movement, never breaking eye contact. _What is she up to?_ For a second, Sandor’s body tingles with anticipation and he realizes this is probably what she feels when he tells her to take off her clothes or to lie down on the bed. It’s bloody disturbing, in a way, to experience this moment between expectation and nervousness when one doesn’t know what their partner is about to do. Sansa said once she trusted him and now he has to trust her too, to surrender to whatever she decides. His breathing hitches and he feels almost dizzy.

Without a word, she touches his hip and makes him roll on his back; he’s more than happy to oblige Sansa and to accompany her movements when she straddles him. Her hands resting on his upper arms, she seems to pin him to the mattress. Sansa leans forward and her lips brush the scars around what’s left of his ear as she murmurs: “I’ll make you stay.”


	13. Melancholic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her gaze softens, the eyelids looking heavier than what they were a second before and her mouth opens slightly - to say something? To kiss him? Looking at each other, they lapse into silence again. In the end he sees a small tug at the corner of her lips then her smile broadens. _What?_  
>  “It makes me very happy,” she murmurs, as if he doubted the genuineness of her smile.  
> The more he focuses on her smile, the more he feels his chest constricting. He squares his shoulders, tries to fight the sensation because it seems bloody ridiculous. _The Others take me, there’s no fucking reason for whatever this is…_ He can’t put his finger on it, can’t even name what he feels or why he feels this way. Mayhap the answer is more embarrassing than the question itself. Her blue eyes shine with anticipation and with this thing she calls trust, when a realization dawns upon him. _If she’s pleased because she got what she wanted, if this makes her happy, why am I feeling so sad?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the amazing LadyCyprus!  
> There's now a site to translate stuff from English to Valyrian (https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator): I used it in this chapter and in the one to come. Go check how to say 'I love you' or 'You know nothing Jon Snow' in Valyrian. Quite fascinating!  
> There’s a reference to my other fic _Nobody’s Woman_ in this chapter ( _Burning Bridges_ being a sequel to _Nobody’s Woman_ ) but you don’t need to have read it to enjoy this.  
> I had to split this chapter in two because it was getting too long… which means you won’t have to wait forever until the next update :)

Bathed in the amber light of the sunset, covering her pale shoulders as she gazes down at her map of Westeros, Sansa’s hair looks more Tully than ever when he enters the solar. _Any moron coming from across the Narrow Sea could identify her as the Stark girl._ His footfall, heavier after a long day navigating the streets of Tyrosh behind Collio Cletis, makes her look up.

There is a fleeting moment when her eyes widen with excitement and she almost beams at Sandor but in an instant she composes herself; her bearing is regal as she gathers her skirts and crosses the room to greet him.

“Won’t you have a seat? You look exhausted.”

He sits down with a grunt, then pushes himself from the armchair a heartbeat later. _Wine, I need wine._ The floorboard creaking under his weight and the clink of the jug of wine against his goblet remind him how tired and clumsy he is tonight. He tilts his head; as the sour red runs down his throat, he can feel the piercing gaze of the little bird boring holes through the back of his sweat-soaked tunic. _Why doesn’t she ask her question?_ His moves deliberately slow, he turns around to face her. _Come on, girl. Ask me._

Instead of meeting his, her eyes drift back to the map rolled out on the table and she exhales a deep sigh. “So… What did Collio Cletis say?” As he remains silent, she goes on: “Did you even ask him?” A bitter smile tugs the corner of her lips, revealing that she doesn’t harbor illusions about his answer.

He clears his throat before answering, “I did. He replied he didn’t need me tomorrow but that I shall be back the day after.” _Do not assume Tyrosh’s sunny weather goes with idleness,_ the merchant insisted.

Sansa gives him a blank stare. For a heartbeat or two, she looks like she’s unsuccessfully trying to take in the information, then she suppresses a gasp. “So you’re free to stay here tomorrow?” This time she doesn’t do anything to hide her glee.

Mesmerized with her radiant smile,  it takes him some time to realize she’s oddly silent; he expected her to gush about the possibilities a whole day of freedom offers, he thought she’d pepper him with questions about his conversation with Collio Cletis, but nothing happens. No chattering, no excited comments about where they might go, just a happy grin and her fingers ghosting along the skin of his forearm.

“Where’s the little bird who used to chirp my ears off when she got excited by something?” he asks, his tone more somber than he intended.

“Chirping is for girls. I grew up.”

_That you did._ His eyes wander on her collarbone, then lower, where the gray silk hides the valley of her breasts.

Maybe his heavy stare combined with his silence bring back the girl she once was because she soon adds, speaking faster than necessary: “A wise man once told me I was here to bid my time and get ready to become the Stark of Winterfell. Is chirping one of the skills I need to hone? I don’t think so.”

Witnessing the changes taking place in her is unsettling to say the least. If he had to compare it with a sensation he’d say it’s something akin to dizziness. This strange feeling took hold of him after he stole her from the Vale, then he experienced it again during the last days before she agreed to their arrangement. He felt like things were fucking out of his control, and he hated it.

Since King’s Landing, perhaps since the moment he saw her wearing a pretty dress and bowing in the courtyard of Winterfell, he expected her to change, to grow up. In the Red Keep he could spend hours observing the smallest changes about her when she was summoned to appear in the Great Hall. _‘Isn’t she taller since the last turn of the moon? Isn’t her dress getting too tight? Is she becoming a better liar when she answers Joffrey’s questions?’_ Those interrogations were always churning in his head. She flowered, she learned - the hard way - to save herself some pain, but she was still too young, much too young when he offered her to leave the Red Keep with him. When he closed his eyes, Sandor remembered the terror on her face that night. Resisting the urge to steal her then and walking away from her was the one decision he was proud of.

Although he did his best not to think about Sansa too much when they were both in the Red Keep, he somewhat acknowledged that she was far too young and thus he couldn't wait for her to come of age. In his fantasies back then, she wasn’t a three-and-ten girl with bigger tits, she was a grown woman, as prim and proper as the little bird who blushed when he addressed her, but a grown woman nonetheless. The image that made his blood run faster at nights was never that of a girl.

He found her changed in the Vale. That was when he realized she didn’t necessarily fit the image of a grown Sansa he created for himself. The woman he met was not the one he thought she had become. These differences only grew bigger as they spent more time together, as he watched Sansa making a home of this  small house they’re about to leave. The image he created of her was only an echo of her true self; it was a haunting, appealing, but distorted version of Sansa. _She’s changing. Becoming the next Stark of Winterfell mayhap. She knows better than to chirp when something makes her happy or nervous._

“Are you quite alright?” she inquires, rousing him from his thoughts.

Sandor mumbles something about the scorching heat, adds a perfunctory curse and looks at her again.

“Am I foolish if I say that I waited for this moment all day? In the end I almost lost hope and told myself you’d come back and say it was impossible. Or you would… refuse to ask Cletis.”

“Why would I refuse, pray tell?” His question borders on bad faith for he made it clear that he was reluctant.

Sansa furrows her brow then chuckles: “I don’t know. It seemed to me that you needed to be persuaded.”

This remark instantly brings back memories of the night before, when Sansa straddled him. “You were persuasive enough, woman.”

Her gaze softens, the eyelids looking heavier than what they were a second before and her mouth opens slightly - to say something? To kiss him? Looking at each other, they lapse into silence again. In the end he sees a small tug at the corner of her lips then her smile broadens. _What?_

“It makes me very happy,” she murmurs, as if he doubted the genuineness of her smile.

The more he focuses on her smile, the more he feels his chest constricting. He squares his shoulders, tries to fight the sensation because it seems bloody ridiculous. _The Others take me, there’s no fucking reason for whatever this is…_ He can’t put his finger on it, can’t even name what he feels or why he feels this way. Mayhap the answer is more embarrassing than the question itself. Her blue eyes shine with anticipation and with this thing she calls trust, when a realization dawns upon him. _If she’s pleased because she got what she wanted, if this makes her happy, why am I feeling so sad?_

* * *

“Go back to sleep.”

The first rays of light wake him up, as always. He must have shifted to sit up because he doesn't feel her warmth against his back anymore. Her tone is firm though as she repeats,  “Go back to sleep.”

Running his hand down his sleepy face, he mumbles a protest.

“Don't you remember? You don’t have to go to Collio Cletis’ today.”

All of a sudden he remembers and he slouches down, making the mattress move under his weight. _Of course, the little bird is right._

“Let me take care of you.” Her arm coils around his middle and he feels her undone hair brushing against his shoulder, then her head resting there. So much gentleness, so much affection that he gives in.

* * *

A clamor in the street finally rouses him; rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he shuffles to the window and sees a peddler arguing with two guards of the Archon brandishing their spear and their shield. The sun is high in the sky. _Fuck…_ Shouldn’t he make the most of this day? It feels like he already wasted some of the precious time he was given.

After taking a piss he puts on his breeches and his tunic then he goes downstairs, expecting to find Sansa in the solar. The room is empty when he arrives but he overhears the little bird talking to their servant in Valyrian. Oddly enough, she soon switches to her mother tongue.

“... can’t find the words in Valyrian,” Sansa admits with a sigh. He imagines her shoulders sagging at this very moment, for she always makes a point of practicing Valyrian. For some reason he freezes and stays there, listening to what’s next.

“Common Tongue, then?” Girri suggests, before adding: “I worry, _ñuha riña_.”

_Nuha riña._ He remembers Collio Cletis’ servants addressing their master’s young sister this way; it means either ‘my lady’ or it is a term of endearment, depending on the circumstances.

“Don’t fret, Girri! I know what I’m doing. I think- I think I know him better now. I understand what he needs.”

A torrent of words in Valyrian ensues and although he doesn’t understand their meaning, Girri’s disagreement is obvious.

“Not good,” the old woman insists, detaching the syllables. “Not good at all. You do not know, _ñuha riña_. The man hurts you.”

Her words feel like a stab. Sandor bites his lower lip; if the women hear him they’ll understand he’s being spying on them… A thump in the kitchen almost make him flinch. Is it possible that the little bird banged her fist on the table?

“No, he doesn’t!” Assuming he’s sleeping upstairs, she’s not shouting but the way she hisses her answer makes it almost threatening.

Girri lets out a deep sigh. “Maybe not now, maybe not today, but soon he hurts you.”

A silence he imagines as dignified welcomes the servant’s words. _Bloody woman._ As his fingers curl into fists, he realizes how plausible her prediction is.

“This conversation is over,” Sansa finally states. The scrape of a stool against the tiles followed by light footsteps put an end to their exchange. He scans his surroundings: where to go before Sansa arrives in the solar? His heartbeat loud in his ears, he tiptoes back to the staircase and stands there as if he has just woken up and gone downstairs.

“Good day,” she exclaims when she sticks her head in the door and sees him. “I didn’t hear you coming.” The blush creeping on her cheeks betrays her embarrassment. _Because of her disagreement with Girri or because she fears I overheard them?_

Under his scrutiny, Sansa does her best to regain her composure; she sweeps imaginary loose strands away from her face, smoothes invisible wrinkles on the skirt of her dress once she’s seated. _Do you really think the old woman is wrong? It might be the wisest thing you heard in months, years maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone warns you and you refuse to listen to them. I may hurt you one day._ The awkward sensation comes back, this time in his throat - is it a lump?

Carrying a tray of food, Girri arrives; she holds her head high as she puts down the tray on the table and rewards her master with a glare. _We’re done pretending, aren’t we? You don’t like me but I never expected you to enjoy my fucking company or to lick my arse._ _Maybe is it better this way. As long as Sansa finds a shoulder to cry on the day I hurt her…_

As soon as he can, he goes to the stables to check on Stranger. Close to its zenith, the relentless sun seems to taunt him. _We have… What? Six hours at the most before the sun starts setting?_ Sansa joins him soon, bringing some food she packed along with a wineskin and as he stuffs the food in the saddle bag, his head down pretending to focus on his task, he feels her eyes on him. A sharp intake of breath and he straightens his back, turning slightly to face Sansa.

Her voice is soft and hardly betrays her excitement when she asks: “Shall we?”


	14. Unreasonable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does she sense the stiffness in his muscles? If it wasn’t dark already, she’d see his fingers contracting on the reins, the knuckles turning white. _‘The only reasonable choice’?_ Who does she think she is, deciding what is reasonable and what is not? Something inside him wants to rear up and to break free from any kind of grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A round of applause for the gracious LadyCyprus, who bent over backwards to edit this chapter despite a very busy schedule! Thank you so much.  
> As in the previous chapter, I used lingojam’s translator to include a few exchanges in Valyrian. 
> 
> Warning for violence and for minor character death: proceed with caution.

She said she didn’t want to give herself to him in the open, in the stony hills outside of Tyrosh; she wanted to find a cave, something, anything. His caresses convinced her otherwise apparently.

Her discarded gown billows in the sea breeze before she rolls on her side to grab it. She places a stone on top of her clothes, then turns to him again. They’re lying naked under the meagre shadow of an olive tree, Sandor’s cloak protecting them from the uneven ground.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he lies, resting on his side to mirror her pose. Since the incident with Girri he can’t help thinking about the old servant’s words and the more he plays the conversation he overheard in his head, the more he agrees: he’s going to hurt Sansa.

He clears his throat and adds: “I’m bloody lucky.”

“It could be like this everyday. In a different scenery, obviously, but it could be very similar. You and me, and Winterfell.” She innocently traces the scars on his chest and the hope he reads in her blue eyes feels like a stab.

“We already had this conversation, little bird. Your bannermen will kill me the moment I cross the drawbridge of your precious Winterfell.”

She protests at that, of course. She keeps saying the houses of the North are not half as resentful as he imagines them. They will let her choose her husband. _As if high-born ladies have a say in this…_ Her delusions about the North and its inhabitants keep fascinating him: only someone who spent long years in exile can idealize their homeland and its people like she does.

“Do you take your moontea?” he inquires.

His question catches her unawares: she almost cringes before boring into his eyes. “I do. I take it everyday. Why? What would you do if I was with child?”

“You can’t claim Winterfell and the North if you come back with a bastard in your wake.”

“Have you forgotten my brother Jon? My father had a bastard when he came back from Dorne.”

“Your father didn’t need to claim anything, he _was_ the North. The bloody Boltons knew their place back in those days. Besides… are you naive enough to ignore that men get away with much more than women do? Whatever virtues you ascribe to your people… they would not forgive you.”

Tilting her chin up, she stares at him. The sun filtering through the leaves seems to play with the ivory color of her skin; it casts moving shadows on her curves and her skin looks even paler on the places the sun rays hit.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she insists. “What would you do if I was with child?”

Ill-at-ease, he avoids her gaze and sneers. “I bought moontea so that it doesn’t happen.”

“That’s not an answer and you know it.”

Whenever they talk after he’s taken her, it’s late and the shadows hide his embarrassment. He can always blow out the candles if need be. In the open air, it’s impossible to hide and the little bird can see every damn muscle moving on his face.

“I’d be a terrible father,” he says but Sansa’s narrowed gaze cuts him in midstream of his self-critical discourse. He closes his eyes, as if to erase what he just said and starts again: “I’d do the right thing. Losing my father when I was still a child fucked me up. I can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up _without_ a father.”

A long silence ensues. At first he fears she’s going to push her luck and ask more details. If he believed in them, he’d beg the old gods and the new to silence her, to stop tormenting him with her questions and her gentleness. To his great surprise, she remains quiet and traces patterns on his shoulder.

Soon the feather-light touch of her fingers vanishes. She drifts off in his arms and they stay there until she wakes up. The shadows are growing longer and longer.

* * *

By an unspoken agreement, they delay their ride back to Tyrosh as if staying in the rocky hills outside the harbor city a little longer allowed them to forget about their worries. The moon is already visible, a bright, thin crescent in the purple sky.

_‘I made you change your mind about today,’_ she observed before getting into the saddle. _‘You’ll change your mind about coming to Winterfell with me too. It will be a big change in your life, of course, but soon you will see it’s the only reasonable choice.’_ Sandor didn’t answer, and the words he dared not speak at that moment seem to create an insurmountable barrier between them. She swivels her head and opens her mouth as though she was about to say more - he can see it over her shoulder - but she quickly thinks better of it. Does she sense the stiffness in his muscles? If it wasn’t dark already, she’d see his fingers contracting on the reins, the knuckles turning white. _‘The only reasonable choice’?_ Who does she think she is, deciding what is reasonable and what is not? Something inside him wants to rear up and to break free from any kind of grip. The air is thick with words left unsaid and their ride back to the small house is a silent one.

The soldiers guarding the city are closing the gates when they arrive: they let them in without a word, without even asking them to dismount. One of them nonetheless spits to show his displeasure. Sandor and Sansa duck their head as they move through the door. Except for the clatter of Stranger’s hooves on the cobbles, everything is eerily quiet. Sansa’s back stiffens against his chest as they make progress through the streets. Some of the inhabitants are hurrying home because it’s dark, others chatting and enjoying the vesperal breeze coming from the sea. In a street lit by torches, well-known by the locals for its taverns, a handful of Tyroshi dare glancing at the young woman wrapped in her veil, but they soon avert their eyes when Sandor glares at them.

On the next day they’ll stuff the couple of chests they own with their possessions, and soon they’ll head to Collio Cletis’ house. The mere evocation of what lays ahead makes him scowl: even though he doesn’t think Collio Cletis would betray them he doesn’t look forward to living under the same roof as his unctuous employer. How will the merchant and his servants treat Sansa? Is the arrangement with the little bird going to survive their moving to Collio Cletis’ mansion? These questions kept tormenting him for the last couple of days, and he finds himself trying to bury his thoughts away once more when Stranger unexpectedly comes to a halt.

_What’s wrong? What did you sense?_ He scans his surroundings - a quiet narrow street he strides almost everyday on his way to Cletis’ mansion - but he doesn’t see any kind of danger. Before Sansa asks what is going on, the familiar contact of his palm against the horse’s neck convinces Stranger to move forward. _Our street is around the corner, after all…_

The second they turn right in their street he understands something’s amiss. Fifty yards ahead, a cluster of Tyroshi - men, women and militia carrying the distinctive shield of those who are sworn to the Archon - are standing in front of their house. A muffled cry escapes the little bird’s mouth.

Stranger’s gait is now agonizingly slow; his muscles tense underneath Sandor. A woman clad in black turns to see who’s approaching and she points at them, shouting something in Valyrian.

“She’s one of our neighbors,” Sansa explains, barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

Ten feet separate them from the onlookers when Stranger stops on his own; from where he is, Sandor sees the door of their house is open, several soldiers moving from the small yard to the kitchen and back. He’d give a lot to be wrong but he thinks he knows what happened. _Buggers..._

“Girri?” Sansa inquires, looking at the people standing there, mumbling in their gibberish. “Where’s Girri?”

As he dismounts, Sansa’s hand closes on his forearm.

“Stay here,” he commands.

“But Girri-”

He shakes his head. “You can’t do anything for Girri now. Ask your gods to help me find the one who did this, if you will.” She looks at him in shock, unable to utter a word, and lets go of him. A glance at the roofs on both sides of the street confirms there’s no immediate danger. _But you never know…_ “Take the reins,” he adds under his breath. “If anyone comes too close to your liking, dig your heels in Stranger’s flanks and go to Cletis’ mansion. Do you remember how to go there?”

The little bird is still panicked, if the abrupt rise and fall of her chest is any indication, yet she nods and grabs the reins. He walks to the door, stopping mid-stride when she protests: “I should come with you!”

Sandor shakes his head. “You don’t need to see what’s inside.”

There’s a lot he wasn’t able to protect her from. The loss of her family, first, Joffrey’s violence and Cersei’s sick little games. Then there were Littlefinger’s schemes and these two weddings she never asked for. Making women happy isn’t Tyrion fucking Lannister’s strong suit, he’d bet his bastard sword on it. His one and only meeting with Harry Hardyng - a brief, bloody meeting leading to Sansa’s escape from the Vale - didn’t convince the cunt was any better at that game. She’s seen enough already and there’s no need for her to see another dead body, especially if said body belongs to a woman who was more a confidante than a servant during these last weeks.

On his way to the kitchen, two soldiers try to stop him but he explains with more gestures than words that he lives here and a neighbor seems to back him up. No sign of struggle in the small yard, but the voices coming from the kitchen prove something’s worth seeing there. When he enters the room, three men wearing breastplate and greaves scowl at him, ready to use their spears. Once more he laboriously tells them he lives in this house. After their initial hostility subsides, he dares ask what happened. The oldest of the soldiers then gives him a lengthy account of what they observed and learned from the neighbors so far.

Two men were seen running away from the small house right before sunset. Their Westerosi attire drew the attention of the old woman living across the street, especially because one of them was holding his side as if he was wounded. They didn’t care to close the door behind them. That was when the old lady realized she had never seen the inner yard of the house since Sandor and Sansa had moved in. After a chat with her closest neighbor she decided to come in and see if everything was alright. It’s a nice way to describe the sneaky habits of a woman who likes to pry on others, but Sandor keeps his mouth shut until the man’s convoluted explanations make him lose his temper.

“Skoros gōntan gaomis naejot se ābra?” he asks, cutting off the Tyroshi. _What did they do to the woman?_

“Abra? Abra?” the soldier repeats, giving him a quizzical look.

_Abra_ means ‘woman’, if he remembers correctly. Suddenly he wonders if he’s not confusing words again and making a bloody fool of himself.

“Buzdari?” suggests one of the two others. Sandor heard this word too many times at Collio Cletis’ not to know it’s the Valyrian for ‘slave’.

“Se buzdari iksis morghe,” the old one answers with a shrug, as if it was obvious. _The slave is dead._ “Irosh nektogon. Aōha buzdari iksin uēpa.” _They cut her throat._ _Your slave was old._

Girri’s death almost sounds like a blessing, in the soldier’s mouth, and he tells himself it’s a good thing Sansa didn’t hear the whole conversation. Losing Girri is hard enough: she doesn’t need to hear their disparaging comments about her.

Unaware of the anger building inside him, the oldest soldier tells Sandor the assassins were after him, most likely and thought they’d find him at home after a long day of work. They probably asked Girri where Sandor could be found. The soldier concludes that the servant either didn’t know where her master was or refused to tell the Westerosi men so they killed her.

In the end, the soldier leads him to the solar the assassins turned upside down. They knocked over the furniture and left books and scrolls on the floor. One of them, Sansa’s map of Westeros, is soaked in blood, the red stain, making the North and the Eastern shore of Westeros ilegible. Sandor takes a step forward to pick it up and that’s when he sees Girri, half-seated, her back resting against the wall, the front of her greyish gown turned red. It brings him back to the horrors he saw when he was two-and-ten, during the Sack of King’s Landing: women and children butchered along with men, no one caring if they lived or died. Slowly, his fingers curl into fists.

Sandor crouches wordlessly, gazing at Girri’s wrinkled face. Her eyes are still open and she looks as if she is watching the ceiling. Next to her, on the floor, there’s the knife she used to cut vegetables, except that the blade is red with the blood of the man who attacked her. _She stabbed him, that’s why he was holding his side when he ran away._

“Aōha buzdari,” the soldier says pointlessly, with a flourish. _Your slave._

_Not a slave,_ he thinks. _A bloody woman who saw right through me, possibly hated me for making the little bird suffer. A woman who died fighting._

Images churn in his head: his mother and his sister on their death beds, the freckles of a maid killed by Gregor, back in Clegane’s Keep. The face of an unknown girl raped and strangled during the Sack of King’s Landing. He closed their eyes, as tenderly as he could, to fight off the guilt. He either arrived too late or was unable to protect them and closing their eyes carefully, tenderly, was the only thing he could do.

  
Leaning forward, he reaches out and closes Girri’s eyes with his trembling hand. She’s done seeing the ugliness of this world.


	15. Guilt-ridden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Guilt is not a competition.”  
> “You don’t know that, little bird. Mayhap it is.” If guilt was a competition, he’d win with flying colors. He’s felt guilty most of his life. Every death he witnessed without being able to do _something_ heightened the feeling.  
>  “How can we deal with guilt?” she goes on. In the dark, she buries her face against his chest and the warmth of her breath tickles him. Never had he thought guilt could bring them closer together. The notion the prim and proper daughter of Eddard Stark could be guilt-ridden, just like him, seemed ludicrous until now, and he never envisioned she might ask his advice on how to deal with guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited with care by the awesome LadyCyprus!  
> The High Valyrian sentences were translated thanks to Lingojam.
> 
> Warning for violence and mention of murder. You can expect the same amount of darkness you found in the previous chapters.

Shielded by his body, curled-up on her side, she lays on the unfamiliar bed of the unfamiliar wing of Cletis’ mansion, alive, safe, yet trembling in his arms. Her sighs and her restlessness remind him she can’t sleep.

At first, when he came back from the inside of their small house, announcing Girri was dead, she took the blow without a word. Staring into space, she let him guide her to Collio Cletis’ house. Once there, Sandor explained what had happened and why they couldn’t stay any longer at their house. Collio Cletis was his usual self, fawning, ready to lament a servant he didn’t know and didn’t care about if that was what the soon-to-be Stark of Winterfell expected of him. Still in shock, the little bird remained speechless all the while, seemingly indifferent to the Tyroshi’s sycophancy. It was only when the servants who hurriedly prepared the guests’ rooms left that she sat down on the bed and started crying.

Her sorrow made him ill-at-ease; he thus stood with his arms dangling at his sides and watched her weeping, ruing his inability to find the proper words or the comforting gestures she needed. There was nothing to do to alleviate her pain, or so he thought. Gazing at Sansa who hid her face in her hands, he contemplated the extent of his failure. _For I should have known, I should have anticipated it. Fuck, I was warned…_

All of a sudden, Sansa looked up at him, as if she finally realized he had been there all this time, a silent witness of her tears. Without wiping her cheeks, she gave him a long look then she stood up and threw herself in his arms.

“Forgive me, I couldn’t cry before them all,” she whispered. Another sob soon interrupted her.

For a second, he wondered who she was talking about, who were these people she refused to cry in front of? Was she referring to Cletis, to his servants, to the crowd gathered in front of their house earlier? _This is bloody irrelevant,_ he told himself, hugging her tightly as if he wanted to absorb some of her pain. _She can cry in front of me and that is all that matters._

This was how their first night at Collio Cletis’ began, with an embrace they gave themselves to keep their sorrow at bay. After a while, they went to bed fully clothed.

She has been lying down with his body curved behind hers for hours now and every time his eyes close, something, anything, be it the slightest move she makes or some idea springing in his mind, prevents him from falling asleep. Sandor lifts his head to gaze at the window. Dawn is not here yet. As tired as he feels, he’d like to see the orange light heralding the morning. There is so much to do and so little time before Girri’s murderers escape the city. Lucky for him, he bought time by convincing Cletis to send a messenger to the Archon himself, begging him not to let any Westerosi man leave the city. The soldiers guarding the city gates will check every cart to prevent them from sneaking out of Tyrosh. The harbor city has become a dragnet and the two men who attacked Girri might not have realized it yet...

“Are you awake?” she whispers. It’s hardly a question: she probably felt him fidgeting on the mattress.

His grunt dispels any remaining doubt and she turns around to face him. “I feel so terrible… They killed her because of me, they were after me, not her and- and I’m not sure I can forgive myself for-” She stops short from delving deeper into guilt.

Sandor wraps his arm around her, his hand resting against the small of her back. “Forgive yourself for what, girl? I’m the one who found out these bastards were coming and I didn’t protect her like I should have. I’m the only one to blame, here.”

“Guilt is not a competition.”

“You don’t know that, little bird. Mayhap it is.” If guilt was a competition, he’d win with flying colors. He’s felt guilty most of his life. Every death he witnessed without being able to _do something_ heightened the feeling.

“How can we deal with guilt?” she goes on. In the dark, she buries her face against his chest and the warmth of her breath tickles him. Never had he thought guilt could bring them closer together. The notion the prim and proper daughter of Eddard Stark could be guilt-ridden, just like him, seemed ludicrous until now, and he never envisioned she might ask his advice on how to deal with guilt.

Yet he has to give her an answer, as unsatisfying as it is. “We don’t deal with it. In cases like this one, we seek revenge and we feel just as guilty after we have vengeance. Perhaps even more guilty. Only death delivers us from guilt.”

A deep sigh welcomes his confession. “This brother who took care of you in the Riverlands, the one you told me once you stayed with… he didn’t really succeed in changing the way you see the world, did he?”

He scoffs. “The Elder Brother was a godly man and he prayed for my soul. Poor bastard had a liking for lost causes, it seems. He prayed- he prayed for a miracle. The Hound converting to the Faith of the Seven, forgetting about all the shit he’s seen to focus on the beauty of life… It would have been a bloody miracle. Well, I’m the living proof miracles don’t exist, no matter how hard you pray.”

A squeeze on his upper arm reminds him how sweet it is to hold her, without even thinking of touching or fucking her. Sandor closes his eyes and decides to do nothing except relish in her presence.

“What are we going to do?” she asks after a silence.

His hand moves up her spine. “These bastards need to pay for what they intended to do to you and for what they did to Girri. I will chase them down and kill them.”

She doesn’t say a word but she shudders in his arms. “I want to help.”

“You’re the one they’re looking for so leaving this place is not safe-”

“No, not again!” She wriggles out of his arms, revolted by the prospect of being cloistered away in this big house.

“Does wandering alone in the streets seem sensible when two men crossed the Narrow Sea to kill you? When they managed to get inside a house and killed a servant just to know your whereabouts? If you are to leave this place you will have an escort. Now look at me and tell me you understand _why_ you can’t roam around the city on your own.”

A reluctant nod is her only answer. He pulls her close, buries his nose in her hair. _I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you._

Time goes slowly as they wait for the morning. A new day, another chance to track and to find the men sent to kill Sansa. After a while, the birds start chirping, indifferent to the anguish squeezing the hearts of those who listen to them. When dawn bleeds in the unfamiliar room he breaks their embrace, sits up, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The lack of sleep makes his first steps uncertain.

“Girri wounded one of them, didn’t she?” Her words catch him as he takes off his tunic to put on a clean one. He freezes.

“That, she did.”

“Try the barber surgeon first, then. They’re trapped in a foreign city and they’re laying low until the gates open again. The wounded one needs to be patched up before they try to flee… or to attack me again.”

In the dim light of dawn, he turns to face her and nods in acquiescence. The little bird is right. She usually is.

* * *

More often than not, Sandor’s thoughts turn to Sansa as he and his companions escort their master through the streets of Tyrosh, from the walled mansion of another merchant to the palace where the Archon rules the city.

They’re waiting for Cletis in the inner yard of said palace, baking under the sun, when Xulah, the warrior from the Summer Isles, inches crabwise and finally plants himself in front of him. Sandor gives him a blank stare. _What in Seven Hells do you want?_

As if he could read his thoughts, the sellsword says in his almost high-pitched, childish voice, addressing him in the Common Tongue: “If you want to find these men who threatened your mistress, I’d like to help you.”

“She’s not my mistress,” he growls.

A bead of sweat runs down his ebony forehead when Xulah frowns. “Who is she to you, then?”

“I don’t know.” The words escape him and he realizes he’s being more sincere than he has been in a long while, as if Xulah’s genuine astonishment allowed him to speak the truth. The arrangement didn’t go as he thought it would and he is at a loss, unable to describe what they have. He shakes his head to remove the thought, then anger replaces perplexity. _This is none of his business_ , he thinks, his right fingers curling into a fist. The tall, black man shrugs at his strange answer.

“How come you speak the Common Tongue?” Sandor asks abruptly.

If his tone - curter than he intended - irritates Xulah, he doesn’t let it show. “I travelled. Spent some time in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then the sellsword goes on: “They’re two, I was told, so you might need my help. The Volantene is also ready to give you a hand.”

The Volantene? Sandor’s gaze drifts to the bald, muscular man crouched in a corner of the yard, honing his knife. He never liked the Volantene. Every time they fought against each other, he felt like the Volantene underestimated him; a nagging feeling that always made Sandor eager to prove him wrong. As a matter of fact, the Volantene bit the dust every single time they crossed swords. Had the Volantene been bloody different, they would have shared some wine and talked in order to sort things out, but the Volantene doesn’t speak. Sandor actually wonders how the fuck Xulah knows the Volantene wants to help, because the man seems as silent as Ser Ilyn Payne.

The Volantene probably feels his stare, for he stops sharpening his blade and lifts his head; he glances at the pair and slowly raises to his full height to join them. Silent as ever, he gazes intently at Sandor then touches the arakh hanging from his belt as if to confirm Xulah’s words. _My sword is yours._

“I have nothing to offer, to recompense you for your time,” Sandor warns them. “Except a jug of good wine, of course.”

Addressing the Volantene, Xulah mutters something in Valyrian and the bald man shrugs.

“Why would you- Why do you want to do this for me ?” Sandor can’t help asking. _Could this be a trap?_

Xulah bursts out laughing: “We’re not doing this for you, nor for the Westerosi girl. I’m offering my help because all this, accompanying Collio Cletis from one place to the other, showing ourselves next to him in the streets - like freaks because we’re foreigners - bores me to death. Chasing two murderers would spice up our routine.”

Wiping his shiny forehead and visibly looking for words, Xulah translates what he just said in Valyrian for the Volantene, who nods solemnly.

“Tonight, as soon as we get back to Cletis’ mansion, then?”

* * *

The cicadas are chirping and the sun is slowly retreating behind the hills when they come back to Cletis’ mansion. Before Sandor gets a chance to drink away the fatigue of the day, the merchant asks him to tell Sansa he wants to speak with her. _The Others take me, what does he want with her?_

“Why? What does he want to discuss with me?” The little bird’s interrogations echo his and he wishes he had an answer for her.

With a sigh she follows Sandor downstairs and across the well-trimmed garden, then walks in the main building of the mansion, after casting a last glance at him. He told her he’s going to chase Girri’s murderers with the help of Xulah and the Volantene, an information Sansa welcomed with a surprised and appreciative ‘Oh!’. _We’ll see, little bird. We’ll see if they truly help me or if they are as useful as a new pair of spurs to a legless cripple._

Following the little bird’s advice, they head to the narrow streets near the harbor where Xulah says the barber surgeon practices his art. The barber’s house looks as decrepit as the other buildings of the poorly lit street and Sandor tells himself one must be desperate to seek the services of such a penniless barber.

Xulah knocks at the door but nothing happens.

“He might have left for the nearest tavern and be in his cups by now,” Sandor observes. “I wouldn't spend more time than needed in this godsforsaken place.”

Xulah glares at him and knocks again, harder this time. For a second, Sandor asks himself if the man from the Summer Isles underestimated the strength of his knock because the door swings half-open, yet no one appears in the doorway. _The fuck?_ As surprised as Sandor, Xulah immediately glances at him over his shoulder, then his eyes search the Volantene’s. The bald man flares his nostrils while his fingers close around the pommel of his arakh. With an incline of his head, Sandor motions Xulah aside and he pushes the door open carefully, feeling his two companions close behind him. Lit by a couple of tallow candles, the inside of the barber’s house is a shambles. Pots, razors, tools are scattered on the table, the benches, and even on the tiled floor. No sign of the barber.

“The door,” Xulah whispers, somewhere behind. In front of him, a wooden door is ajar; Sandor silently crosses the room. In one deft movement, his bastard sword leaves its scabbard. He’s ready for whatever awaits them on the other side of the door, be it Girri’s murderers or a less than houseproud barber...

The hinges grate as Sandor opens the door and at first he sees no one, until his eyes move down and find the corpse on the floor. _The barber._ His breeches, typical of the Tyroshi taste, his dyed beard - once red and now closer to a rusty orange - and his stained leather apron confirm he’s the owner of the place, not one of the men they’re looking for.

While his companions search the house making sure no one else is there, Sandor hunkers down near the body, avoiding the pool of blood. Like Girri, the barber had his throat cut and the not very long but neat slit on the side of his neck makes him think whoever did this is no beginner. The body is still warm and the tallow candles in this room and in the one they just crossed suggest the barber saw his last customers a short while ago. Xulah and the Volantene are somewhere upstairs, their slightest move making the wooden floor creak, but before long he hears them in the staircase. Sandor’s eyes slowly drift to the table that might have been used to patch up some of the barber’s customers as he stands up with a grunt. There’s some blood, both on the grained surface of the wood and on a cloth. A couple of surgical instruments seem to have been abandoned there before getting a chance of being cleaned.

Out of breath, Xulah walks in behind him. “Whoever killed this man also robbed him,” he informs Sandor in an almost apologetic tone, brandishing a small chest seemingly empty. “There are only copper coins left in the till.” After a pause, he goes on: “What do you think?”

“The barber either refused to tend to my fellow countryman’s wound or there wasn’t much he could do at this point… Either way, the cunt who cut our servant’s throat also killed the barber. We should try the inns, starting with the ones close to the harbor. They’re probably hiding before crossing the Narrow Sea again.”

“The Archon’s guards have been patrolling the harbor all day. They can’t leave.”

“They can always grease the palm of some unscrupulous captain,” he sighs. “We’re done here. We’ll report to the Archon’s guards as soon as we see them, but for now we’d better question the tavern owners about the bastards we’re looking for.”

When they leave the room where they found the corpse, the Volantene is already on the threshold of the barber’s house observing the narrow street swallowed by darkness. On a wordless agreement the three men head to the wharves. Most of the sailors and the porters deserted the harbor for the taverns where they seek comfort at the bottom of a jug of wine that tastes like piss. Eyes narrowed, he makes out the swaying sign of one of those taverns, a bit further away. The sign sways with a creaking sound, reminding him of his nights in King’s Landing when he drank away his misery… After his sleepless night and his day sweating under the Tyroshi sun, he feels exhausted but he needs to stay focused. _Where to start? The taverns or the Archon guards? We can’t keep the barber’s death to ourselves._ In a quandary, he scans his surroundings, ruing the darkness that prevents him from seeing twenty yards ahead, until the dull clunking of armor draws his attention to an alley to the right. _A guard?_

They are three of them, conversing as they head to the wharf where Sandor and his companions just stopped. As soon as they spot the sellswords, the Archon men fall silent. The images of the murdered barber churn in Sandor’s head and he finally decides to walk towards them, even if it means wasting time while Girri’s murderers are still at large. It’s as if he could hear his father’s voice. _Stop thinking. Do what needs to be done._

Closing the distance between the Archon guards and himself, he’s struggling to form a proper Valyrian sentence in his head when the oldest of the three men shouts something at the others and they point their spears at him.

_What in Seven Hells-_

“ _Ūndegon zirȳla!_ ” the guard bellows. “ _Ūndegon se Vesterozia!_ ”

The two others grab Sandor’s arms and try to force them behind his back; he flails, spins on his heels and floors one of his opponents with a powerful punch. It’s when he turns to the other guard that he feels it, cold and sharp against the skin of his neck: the pointed head of a spear, holding him at bay.

There’s no point in resisting afterwards. _They were told to arrest any Westerosi man and to take him to the bloody Archon,_ he realizes as the guard he knocked down moments before ties his hands, showering abuse on him. _You were a fool to try to report the barber’s death._ While the three men are rejoicing about their catch, he glances back at Xulah and the Volantene who run to the small group. To his great surprise, it’s the Volantene who addresses the Archon guards, mumbling something in Valyrian. Sandor recognizes the Valyrian word for ‘innocent’, because the Volantene keeps repeating it in his odd, grating voice, then Xulah tries to explain why Sandor wanted to talk to them.

“Vala jiōraton ossēntan. Toliot konīr!” Xulah almost shrieks, gesturing. _A man was murdered. Over there._

If Xulah hoped this would make them release Sandor, he’s sorely mistaken. The news of the barber’s demise only galvanizes the guards. The oldest guard brutally drags Sandor away from his companions, most likely insulting Xulah and the Volantene.

“Se Vesterozia kessa udligon naejot se Archon,” he taunts the two sellswords. _The Westerosi will answer to the Archon._


	16. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man’s nose is swollen and his copper-colored skin has turned dark under his eye. In the flickering light of the torches that lit the corridor, he’s sitting with his arms around his knees, his back resting against the heavy bars of their shared cell.  
> “What happened to you?” he asks, and Sandor instantly notices the drawl. _Dorne. I’m in jail with a bloody Dornishman._  
>  Sandor shrugs, then slides slowly down the wall to sit on the beaten earth. “Been caught in the harbor, and dragged in here.”  
> “How did they catch you? Didn’t you know the Archon’s guards were looking for Westerosi men?”  
> “If you are so fucking wise and well-informed, how come you ended up here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladycprus did a fantastic job to edit this very long chapter: please give her a round of applause!  
> Speaking of the length of this update, had I been more reasonable, I'd have split this in two (which potentially means more hits and more comments). I _should_ have split this in two, but when I first thought of this chapter, I told myself it had to go from a point A (Sandor in the Archon's jail) to a point B and I decided to stick to this idea. This long update is also meant to make it up to you after a long absence.  
>  Warning for violence.

The man’s nose is swollen and his copper-colored skin has turned dark under his eye. In the flickering light of the torches that lit the corridor, he’s sitting with his arms around his knees, his back resting against the heavy bars of their shared cell.

“What happened to you?” he asks, and Sandor instantly notices the drawl. _Dorne. I’m in jail with a bloody Dornishman._

Sandor shrugs, then slides slowly down the wall to sit on the beaten earth. “Been caught in the harbor, and dragged in here.”

“How did they catch you? Didn’t you know the Archon’s guards were looking for Westerosi men?”

“If you are so fucking wise and well-informed, how come you ended up here?”

The Dornishman gives him a faint scowl. “My captain denounced me. Three years sailing together across the Narrow Sea, serving him faithfully and being his sailing master and the cunt denounced me.” He exhales deeply and let his eyes wander across the stone walls of their cell, as if he was looking for a way out. _Moron._ A cry coming from another cell breaks the silence. If there’s another Westerosi in the gaols of the Archon, he is clearly in pain.

“You didn’t answer my question,” the sailing master goes on, getting on his feet. “How did they catch you?”

Sandor’s eyes drop to his lap. Can he fool the Dornishman, with his long legs nonchalantly crossed at the ankle and his feigned casualness? His next glance at the man confirms what Sandor expected: his companion in misery is smirking, suspecting some pitiful explanation.

“I reported a murder.” _Better keep it simple and-_

The man roars at his confession, his laughter becoming more raucous as it echoes on and on against the stone walls. “Only a Northerner can walk into the lion’s den like you did,” he manages to say after catching his breath.

“I’m not a bloody Northerner, I’m from the Westerlands.”

“To me you’re all Northerners, no matter which king you’re sworn to..”

_I’m done obeying kings._ He glares at the Dornishman. “I was only doing what seemed right.”

“And look where it led you.” The man paces back and forth in the cell, until he finally grabs the heavy bars and looks in the corridor. “Do you know how it all started, this manhunt for Westerosi in the otherwise hospitable Tyrosh? From what I could gather, the servant of a Tyroshi merchant was killed by two Westerosi men and the bloody merchant swore vengeance. Now we’re all getting arrested. I wager there will be more of us in the cells come the morning…”

Sandor clears his throat. “She wasn’t a merchant’s servant. She was _our_ servant.” _More than a servant to the little bird, in the end._

The Dornishman turns around abruptly, his eyes widened. “The fuck you said?”

Unhurriedly, he rises to his full height and looks down at the annoying Southerner. “I said she was our servant. _I_ hired her.”

His tone must be threatening because said Southerner steps back; it is not enough to silence him though: “It doesn’t explain all this fuss about the death of a servant who was just a slave...”

“The two murderers were after someone else.”

The Dornishman rolls his eyes. “You? My mother said the Northerners always like to be the center of the attention but-”

“Careful, now.” Before the seaman can react, Sandor pins him to the bars of their cell and lifts him up with one hand. “You are a hell of a windbag.” The man flails, but Sandor’s grip on him is firm. “For your information, I never said it was me they wanted to kill.” Without any warning, he lets go of the Dornishman who hits the floor with a bump.

“Who, then?” he coughs, humiliated but as meddlesome as before.

“This is none of your concern.”

He should have known such an answer would only arouse more curiosity. The sailing master scrambles to his feet and re-enters the fray. “Who? You’ve already said too much-”

“Think. Who can send two murderers across the Narrow Sea at great expense and _why_ would they do that?”

Leaning against the ocher stone wall, the Dornishman frowns deeply. “The Dragon Queen?”

Sandor shakes his head. “Too busy fighting in Westeros.”

“The bloody queen Cersei?”

“Could be, but she’s busy fighting the Targaryens and trying to save her hide.”

A silence falls upon the cell as the man stares at Sandor, looking for an answer on his half-burnt face. “I heard a rumor,” he finally said, barely above a whisper.

_There we are._

“A rumor about Littlefinger’s death and how Lord Hardyng’s bride was abducted by a man. Some people… some people told me she wasn’t who Littlefinger said she was. Some people believed she was the Stark girl.”

There’s no point in confirming or denying the Dornishman’s allegations.

“So… Is she here, in Tyrosh? She’s a threat for the Freys and the Boltons.”

“This is none of your concern.” He could lie, he could put him off the scent but it seems useless now. Now that Collio Cletis asked the Archon’s help, it will be difficult to deny Sansa’s presence in the harbor city.

“A Westerman protecting the heir of the North, it doesn’t make sense.” _Best not address this question._ “We Dornishmen hate the Baratheons and the Lannisters, for what they did to Princess Elia. Not to mention the Targaryens and their mad king. We blamed Ned Stark for the part he played in Robert’s Rebellion, but we had nothing against him when he was ruling the North.” The seaman seems to be thinking out loud. “This Stark girl can’t be worse than the Boltons and the Freys… I am Athamas Sand, by the way.”

“Bastard of a Prince of Dorne?”

“Our princes sired many a bastard.” With that he bows his head theatrically. “And you are…?”

“A bloody Westerner who would gladly get some rest.” Sandor sits down on the beaten earth with a grunt and folds his cloak before placing it under his head.

“Who are you?” The Dornishman insists, regardless of Sandor’s already closed eyes. Is he staring at his scars? Sandor doesn’t ignore the fact that Dornish people spit on house Clegane since Gregor sullied the name of his family. _I saw the bloodied cloaks wrapped around an infant and a little girl. Someone placed them at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Iron Throne and my brother smirked._

He’d like to buy time, if possible, before the infamous name escapes his lips. When he opens his eyes, Athamas Sand is leaning over him, his moustache hardly concealing the harsh line of his mouth. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

Sandor sits up and bores into his eyes. “My name is Sandor Clegane.”

The Dornishman curses under his breath and takes a step back. “The Hound? The fucking Hound? They said- they said the Hound died after the raid on Saltpans.”

“Do you believe dead men can walk and talk?” As the man shakes his head, he goes on. “And if I had raided Saltpans I’d bloody remember.”

Still in shock, the Dornishman silently goes back to his favorite spot and sits down opposite to him, his back against the bars.

“Where will you go, after all this?” Sandor asks.

The other chuckles. “You mean if they don’t kill us? I was told they don’t hang people here, but prefer more refined ways of killing prisoners… Where will I go? I have no idea. The ship I served on set sail by now. You… Your Stark girl will look for you and ask the Archon to let you go. You have nothing to fear.”

“Yet the murderers are still at large, threatening her life. I was trying to catch them when these buggers who serve the Archon arrested me.”

The Dornishman gets started on another tirade, but with his head resting on his folded cloak Sandor barely listens and closes his eyes.

* * *

The loud, lingering creaking of the door wakes him up. Two guards are standing behind the bars, on each side of the door. Full of hope, the Dornishman jumps to his feet but one of the guards points his spear at Sandor.

“Māzigon lēda īlva. Adere.” _Come with us. Quick._

The two Westerosi exchange a long look. Is it the end of Sandor’s imprisonment or the beginning of something worse? He glares at the two guards whose features are unreadable, then he grabs his cloak and crosses the cell.

“If they release you,” Athamas whispers, “find these men and kill them. Mayhap they’ll let me go.”

Sandor nods. “If you need something, find a merchant named Collio Cletis and ask for me.”

The guards already lose patience and one nudges at Sandor’s back with the pointed head of his spear. Flanked by the guards, he progresses through the dark corridors of the Archon’s gaols, before reaching a spiral staircase carved in ocher stone. He cranes his neck to see where the stairs are leading them; one of the guards pokes him with his spear again.

“Iksin nyke dāez?” Sandor asks the guards. _Am I free?_

No one condescends to answer his question and the rest of their ascent is made in silence.

Upstairs, the guards guide him through a corridor and what looks like the waiting room of the Archon’s subjects before pushing open the heavy doors of an audience room. Under the coffered ceiling repeatedly emblazoned with the sea snail that gave the harbor city its wealth, a group of persons amongst whom he recognizes Sansa and Collio Cletis are waiting; at the end of the large room, a short flight of stairs lead to a throne. An old bearded man is sitting there, listening to another old man who appears to be his adviser. The light coming from the high windows confirms it’s the morning.

Another nudge between his shoulder blades and Sandor walks past the little bird and Collio Cletis, moving inexorably toward the Archon’s throne. The Archon strokes his beard and weighs him up, before calling Collio Cletis. The fat merchant hurries to the throne, Sansa in tow.

“Iksis ziry se vala ao ivestretan nyke nūmāzma?” the Archon asks. _Is he the man you told me about?_

Hands clenched over his belly, Collio Cletis nods gravely. Sandor notices the beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the relatively cool temperature: there’s something about the merchant that says he’s not as familiar with the Archon as he’d like to pretend and that the moment is quite important for him.

“Se se ābrītsos ābra?” the Archon asks again, smoothing the fabric of his long, gaudy tunic. _And the young woman?_

Thrilled to be the center of attention, Cletis opens his mouth but Sansa steps forward and preempts his answer: “Aōha dārōñe, iksan Sānsa hen Stārke Lentor, tala hen Edhārd Stārke, jentys hen jelmor.” _Your Grace, I am Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, warden of the North._ She then curtsies like she used to in King’s Landing. The Archon is gaping.

A dialogue between the two ensues, the Archon offering the little bird his condolences for her losses, asking time and again if Sandor is _really_ the man who protects her, then bidding her to come and share his table so that they can discuss the future relations between the North and Tyrosh.

Collio Cletis laps it up, nodding vehemently when the Archon invites Sansa to come back to the palace. Of course, he will accompany the Stark heir to her supper with the Archon. Of course, he’ll try to profit from his connection with Sansa to do business.

Before the ecstatic merchant sounds the retreat, Sansa addresses the Archon one last time: “Aōha dārōñe, kostagon nyke epagon skorkydoso ao nūmāzma naejot ūndegon se lanta Vesterozia?” _Your Grace, may I ask how you intend to catch the two Westerosi?_

“Ñuha mentyr ūndegon mirre se Vesterozia hen oktion, mēre tolī se tolie,” the Archon cautiously answers, as his fingers curl around the end of his armrests. _My soldiers catch all the Westerosi of the city, one after the other._

Sandor sees his little bird taking a sharp intake of breath. “Gaomagon aōha vali ȳdragon se Quptenkys Ēngos?” _Do your men speak the Common Tongue?_

_The fuck?_

“Lo aōha vali ūndegon se Vesterozia, Sāndohr Clegane kessa krenyikhé másino zirȳ.” _If your men catch the Westerosi, Sandor Clegane will gladly question them._

Beside him, Collio Cletis almost chokes. _How smart of her._ Cletis would never agree to let his sellsword go, even for a couple of days. Since the Archon showed some interest in Sansa’s safety, Sandor doesn’t see why he would refuse her proposition: if the Archon agrees, the merchant won’t have a say in this. Cletis nervously dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, waiting for the Archon’s answer yet already looking defeated.

The Archon gestures. “Skoro syt daor?” _Why not?_

Another curtsy, slightly deeper this time and Sansa raises her head again, beaming. _What, now? I question the Westerosi men the guards caught and I try to confound the murderers?_ Never did he envision his hunt for Girri’s assassins would take place in the Archon’s palace...

After kowtowing to the Archon, Collio Cletis leads them out of the audience room, dabbing the nape of his neck with a silk handkerchief. Sandor is still baffled by what just happened and as they stride down the palace’s hall, he feels Sansa’s hand on his arm, featherlight but more comforting than a thousand hugs at this moment. Their eyes meet briefly before they reach the inner yard where a guard returns Sandor’s sword. Soon enough, Xulah’s friendly face and the Volantene, with his  unreadable features, appear on his right. As if to remind them all it is time to leave, Sansa covers her head with her veil, drapes it across her shoulders and places her hand on Collio Cletis’ arm. _We’ll need to talk as soon as possible,_ Sandor thinks, watching his little bird walking on the merchant’s arm, taller than him yet looking so delicate compared to the fat man.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the bed in their new room, Sansa looks up at him.

“Collio Cletis made me talk about the North, its resources, its harbors for two long hours,” she starts. “I was-  foolish when I left Winterfell. I was a silly girl who didn’t pay attention to the things that really matter… How can I speak about the forests of the North, the varieties of trees, the quantity of fish in White Harbor and such things with a man who dealt with numbers since before he came of age?” She looks so helpless at this very moment that he sits beside her and wraps his arm around her shoulders.

“You were one-and-ten when you left your home. Collio Cletis is a fool if he expects you to answer all his questions.”

She exhales deeply. “I don’t know how to do what these people expect from me… Talking to Cletis was already complicated, so I can’t imagine what a discussion with the Archon is going to be like. What am I supposed to do? I’m just an exile from a famous house. I don’t want to seem arrogant… but I can’t risk to fall prey to their promises. If I ever endanger the North’s economy by signing some agreements-”

Sandor silences her. “Don’t promise. Don’t sign. You spent enough time observing Littlefinger to know exactly what he would do if he was in your position.”

“He’d buy time.”

“So that’s what you’re going to do.” He pauses, holding her gaze until she frowns slightly, silently asking what he’s about to tell her. “What did you have in mind when you asked the Archon to let me question the Westerosi prisoners?”

Her eyes widen, then she bites her lower lip before answering: “I knew Cletis wouldn’t let you hunt down the killers unless you did it on your free time. And… Look at you! You’re exhausted. You probably think I twisted his arm but it was the only way, really.”

_You twisted my arm too. You could have asked if I agreed._ He doesn’t see himself questioning people in the Archon’s palace when the murderers are still at large.

“I wanted to hunt them down myself.” There was a time when he would have yelled at her, without so much as an excuse; a time when violence was the only way to vent his frustration. He must have bloody softened to say what’s truly troubling him.

Sansa’s mouth takes the shape of a perfect O as she realizes what he means and she places her hand on his. “I am sorry if you misapprehended my request to the Archon. Of course, you want to hunt them down and to make them pay for what they did. And I know you will! But at the same time I don’t want you to take risks,” she pleads, her hand tightening on his. “I can’t risk losing you.”

He withdraws his hand, glares at her and jumps to his feet. “Well, in that case, I’d better go back to the Archon’s palace and start questioning the men, since my lady decided I couldn’t do any better.”

“It’s not-” The laughter of the servants in the inner yard drowns out the rest of her protest.

“You could have asked me,” he spits, before hurtling down the stairs.

* * *

The captain of the Archon’s guards allowed him to stay in what they call the Hall of the Guards, a square room which looks like an armory and smells like the cellar of an inn - equal parts plonk and mold. Saying the captain wasn’t pleased with Sandor’s arrival and the mission the Archon assigned to him would be a vast understatement. The Tyroshi is a man in his late thirties, with hooded eyelids; deep lines etch his face, resentment making them look even deeper. From the doorway, he sizes up Sandor, then motions his head towards the prisoner sitting on a stool. The man, a sailor Sandor has been interrogating for almost an hour, swivels his head to look at the captain with apprehension. Sandor shakes his head. This man, like the four he questioned earlier, has nothing to do with Girri’s death.

“Kostā dāez zirȳla,” Sandor suggests. _You can release him._

The captain sneers at that, as if it was the best jape he heard in awhile, then he slowly wags his finger. In all likelihood he’s going to escort the man back to his cell. He gestures impatiently at the Westerosi, who crosses the room, shoulders sagging.

Once alone, Sandor gets on his feet to stretch his sore muscles. When Girri died, he imagined himself chasing down her murderers throughout the city, going from taverns to the market place and back until he found and killed the men who threatened Sansa. _This_ is the opposite of what he wanted and he is playing the game by Sansa’s rules now, because she talked the Archon into this foolery. A little voice in his head whispers that maybe it’s not so foolish after all, that they’re proceeding methodically instead of breaking doors like he first envisioned. Can he silence the little voice now? _Maybe the little bird is right._

The door opens and one of the guards ushers another prisoner to the Hall of the Guards. This one is a scrawny man, much shorter than Sandor, with a mop of dirty blond hair and a distinctive golden hoop in his left ear. _Time to sit down again and ask the same bloody questions._

At first, the man doesn’t want to speak and gives Sandor monosyllabic answers. The questions are always the same. Where does he come from in Westeros? What does he do for a living? What is he doing in Tyrosh and for how long has he been here? Did he support anyone during the War of the Five Kings? What was he doing on the night Girri died? Sandor asks the same questions twice, insists for detailed answers, trying to find inconsistencies in the man’s answers. Like the other men Sandor interviewed so far, this one doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Girri’s death. He says he’s been crossing the Narrow Sea again and again, on different carracks and cogs. He adds that he has a daughter in Tyrosh and that she was the reason why he spent the last weeks in the harbor city.

“If you got a Tyroshi woman to open her thighs for you, if you sired her child, you must speak Valyrian fluently,” Sandor observes, leaning forward. “You don’t mind if the Archon’s guards question you in Valyrian.”

The scrawny man shrugs - is it modesty or just a way to disguise his sudden panic?

“Why did they arrest so many people? So many Westerosi? Why in Seven Hells do you ask all these questions?”

Sandor sits back. “Two days ago a servant was murdered. The neighbors saw two Westerosi men escape the house. We believe these men were sent from Westeros to kill someone who took shelter here. The Archon wants to know who’s threatening the life of this someone. If you saw anything, you’d better tell me.”

Something changes about the man’s features and his eyes widen, as if a realization dawned upon him. _Is_ _it_ _possible_ _that_ _he_ _knows_ -

The door opens suddenly and an out-of-breath captain steps in the room. _The_ _fuck_ _is_ _this_?

“Mirros massitas. Nuha vali ūndan iā morghe Vesterozia vala isse iā geralbar ondoso se lōgor.” _Something happened. My men found the dead body of a Westerosi man in an alley by the harbor._

“Mirre ōdria?” Sandor inquires. _Any wounds?_

The captain of the guards nods vehemently. “Mēre rova ōdrio rȳ se paktot. Hae se ābra vestās.” _One rather large wound at the abdomen. Like the witness said._ The Tyroshi’s eyes fall on the blond man, before drifting back to Sandor. “Se bisy?” _What about this one?_

The prisoner’s eyes widen, proving he knows they’re talking about him and he protests at once, saying in Valyrian he didn’t do anything. The captain scoffs and shakes his head with annoyance until the blond man says hesitantly: “Mayhap I know something.”

Sandor instantly beckons the captain of the guards who shuts the door behind him; in two strides the soldier is next to the blond man, looming over him. The prisoner starts saying he met a Westerosi man who behaved strangely in a tavern called _Se Hāregros_ the night before. The stranger carried a lot of gold on him and he asked if he knew a skilled barber surgeon, before taking some food upstairs to his brother who, according to him, had been severely kicked by a horse. The man speaks the Common Tongue and Sandor translates as efficiently as he can, adding gestures when the words escape him.

“When he came back down, I asked how his brother was. He wasn’t doing well. I was already in my cups at this time... I told him my best friend got kicked by a horse too and that he died shortly after. Then the strangest thing happened. He stared at me, touching his purse, and he said that if his brother died he would be even richer.”

“You said you were in your cups,” Sandor observes. “Mayhap you dreamed all this.”

The blond man shakes his head. “His look and his tone sobered me.” He pauses. “Then I left the tavern and the guards arrested me.”

Irritated because they seem to forget he doesn’t speak the Common Tongue, the captain of the guards demands a translation of their exchange, then asks what the man looked like. Tall, with cropped dark hair and wearing a leather jerkin, the stranger is in his thirties; he looks like many Westerosi visiting Tyrosh. The only noticeable thing about him is a dagger which handle shows ‘two towers on top of a bridge’ by the prisoner’s own account.

Sandor sits back, exhaling deeply. _The Others take me if this isn’t the sigil of the bloody Freys._

The captain gestures impatiently, demanding an explanation. Fumbling with Valyrian words, Sandor answers that the adornment on the mystery man’s dagger reveals his connections with Sansa’s enemies. Nodding solemnly, the captain makes the blond man repeat his description of the stranger before storming out of the room. _Seven Hells, I don’t want to sit in a corner while they’re chasing him…_

He bolts out, following the captain and forgetting about the blond-haired suspect. The captain’s booming voice fills the corridor and the guards rush over, their spears clicking against the breastplate. Listening to the commands, they line up in no time, ignoring Sandor’s presence behind the captain. It’s only when the taciturn captain turns around that he realizes the Westerosi has been standing there, watching the men gathering. Without waiting for Sandor’s request, he spits: “Ao sagon daor māzis.” _You’re not coming._

The tone of his voice brooks no argument, yet Sandor tries to reason with the man, explaining why they should allow him to join them. Neither the fact they could use another sword, nor his threats when a guard starts laughing convince his interlocutor; the captain keeps saying the Archon only agreed to have him question the suspects. And after all they need someone to keep a close eye on the _bloody Westerosi prisoners_. Sandor will be that someone and he will lend a hand to the old gaoler who stays in the basement of the palace. The rest of them have a murderer to catch, a man who became a public enemy the moment the Archon saw fit to protect the Stark heir. His fingers curl into fists and he silently curses the Tyroshi captain as he and his men march out of the palace.

_Thank you, little bird. I could be hunting down the bastard who slaughtered Girri but by talking to the Archon, you forced me to stay here, waiting like a cunt, while the captain of the guards is outside, playing the hero._ He’s being unfair and he knows it. Digging his nails deep in his palms, he walks back inside the so-called hall of guards; when he enters the room the blond man is standing by the barred window, scrutinizing the iron bars.

“Trying to escape?” Sandor taunts him.

The blond man turns around, suppressing a gasp. “No, of course not. Now that the guards are out, knowing exactly who they’re looking for, I’m sure they’ll release me soon.”

Sandor nods. “Let’s get back to your cell, then. As you said, they should release you very soon.”

The man lets out a sigh and he shuffles along the now very quiet hallways and to the underground cells. Walking behind him, Sandor notices how the blond man pays attention to his surroundings.

“I’m not feeling well,” the man informs him as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The old gaoler greets Sandor with a curse and he takes the lead through the narrow corridors, keys jingling at his side.

“Didn’t you say they arrested you last night?” Sandor inquires, ducking his head because of the low ceiling. “You haven’t eaten since then; you’re bloody hungry, that’s all. I’ll tell the gaoler to bring you some food.”

They move past the cell where Sandor spent a couple of hours before dawn: Athamas, the Dornishman, gets on his feet, his fingers tightening around the bars as he gazes intently their little group. The blond man keeps walking, bending and crossing his arms about his middle as if he needed to hold his bowels.

The gaoler flourishes after opening the door of an empty cell at the end of the corridor. The blond man seems to hesitate and he gives Sandor a long look. Rolling his eyes, the gaoler curses again.

“You’ll get some food, I promise,” Sandor tells him as he almost shoves the prisoner into the cell.

The old gaoler reluctantly promises to bring something from the kitchens for the blond man and leaves, inveighing against the Westerosi who dares to give him orders.

_Seven Hells…_ He needs to calm down and to wait until the guards return, covered in glory; gritting his teeth, he retraces his steps, not even slowing down when Athamas Sand calls him.

“I need to talk to you!” the Dornishman almost begs.

_What does he want? Food? Is he going to pretend he’s starving, like the other one? Does he think he’s going to have a special treatment because we talked last night?_

“Not now,” he answers, ignoring the Dornishman’s further protests. He needs to think… All of a sudden, footsteps echoing in the staircase make him freeze. It can’t be the gaoler, who hardly reached the kitchens by now. _Who’s coming down here?_ _The captain took all the guards-_

A bald, ebony skull shines under the flickering light of the torches and he recognizes Xulah’s affable features. _What the fuck?_ Behind him he sees the pleats of a silk gown and soon, emerging from the shadows, the little bird herself.

“Lady Sansa, what are you doing here?” he asks. Her eyebrow raises at his sharp and unusually formal tone.

Sansa steps forward. “I came here to see how things were going.” It’s when she opens her pretty mouth again that he realizes he’s frowning so deeply she wants to preempt his question. “Collio Cletis went out with the Volantene and Avero. As it happens, I befriended someone who couldn’t wait to pay you a visit.”

Jumping from the second-to-last stair, Cletis’ dark-haired son lands on his feet with a little gasp. “Is it true you are chasing the- murderers?” Lilio inquires.

A mirthless laughter escapes his lips. “Chasing? No. I just get to question the suspects. The Archon’s guards keep all the fun for themselves.”

“Oh.” The little boy’s eyes move between him and Sansa, trying to understand where the tension comes from. “So that’s why the palace is almost empty,” Lilio goes on. “They all went- They all went chasing the-”

From the depths of the Archon’s jail, a voice interrupts the little boy: “I need to talk to you!” _It’s the bloody Dornishman again._

Enough is enough: Sandor leads them upstairs, back to the foul-smelling Hall of the Guards. Of course Lilio wants to know everything, from the place where the suspects sit down while he interrogates them to the questions he asks.

“And thanks to you the guards know where to find these bad people,” Lilio sums up at the end of Sandor’s explanation.

“There’s only one of them, now,” Sandor corrects him. “One was found dead and-”

The little bird promptly lowers herself and places her hands on the child’s shoulders: “I think the rest of this conversation is not suitable for boys, my dear.”

“I’m old enough to listen!” Lilio protests, glaring at her. “Sandor teaches me swordfight, sometimes with a _real_ sword. Tell her, Xulah!”

_Very well._ Sandor can’t help smiling at Sansa’s discomfited face as she stands up straight, seemingly yielding. _You’d like to control everything, little bird, don’t you? Except it’s not always possible. I learned this lesson the hard way._

Lilio asks him more questions, which he answers diligently. Only when the conversation winds down does he remember the Dornishman’s supplications; it’s probably nothing but he should listen to him anyway. _And if it allows me to avoid Sansa for a little while, all the better._

Leaving Sansa and Lilio with Xulah, he goes downstairs once more, wondering how long it will take the guards to come back with Girri’s murderer. Oddly enough, the gaoler is not snoring in his seat at the entrance of the long corridor like he expected him to be.

“Issi ao konīr?” _Are you there?_

“Sandor Clegane of the Westerlands?” It’s Athamas’ voice, again. “You’re too late.”

_What the fuck?_ In three strides, he’s by the Dornishman’s cell.

Behind the bars, Athamas’ nose looks even more swollen. “He escaped. Made the gaoler come inside his cell, then he knocked him out and ran away.”

“Who?”

“The blond man, whatever his name is…”

_Why escaping now? The guards are about to release everyone once they catch-_

“He lied to you, he’s the murderer!” Athamas goes on. “That’s what I tried to tell you. He knows Lady Stark is in the palace, we all overheard you when she arrived.”

Sandor’s feet move of their own accord to the cell at the end of the corridor; the door is not even closed and the gaoler lays on the beaten earth, whining. He shakes the old man’s shoulders, forces him to get back on his feet and almost drags him along the hallway, under the scrutiny of the other prisoners who all want to tell him something.

“Let me help you!” Athamas shouts, over the other prisoners’ voices. Sandor stops mid stride, still supporting the gaoler by his arm to help him walk. “Open this damn door and I will help you find him!”

Should he trust the Dornishman? He’d like to open the door but right now he doesn’t know who he can trust. _Besides, the keys disappeared with the fugitive._

“No,” he retorts coldly. He could ask the gaoler if there’s a spare key somewhere, but he doesn’t have time for it. Ignoring the gaoler’s protests, he grabs the man’s upper arm and leads him upstairs. “Māzigon va, adhirikydho.” _Come on, quickly._

_And these buggers made me leave my sword in their damn armory…_ First, the little bird and Lilio. Heart pounding in his chest, he sends the gaoler to the palace doors, where at least a guard or two remain, then he runs to the Hall of Guards. Sansa, Xulah and Lilio are still there, the two adults conversing while the little one observes the two spears the guards didn’t take with them.

“Stay here and keep the door closed!” Sandor warns Xulah.

“What happened?” Sansa’s eyes widen with concern, as she closes the distance between them.

“A prisoner just escaped. He’s the one we’re looking for. He’s still in the palace and he knows you’re here.” _Congratulations, little bird, you just walked into the lion’s den._ Moving past her, he takes one of the discarded spears as a replacement for his sword. “Xulah, you stay here with them and prevent _anyone_ from coming in.”

A brief glance at Xulah, who nods solemnly, and he’s back in the hallway. The ominous sound of heavy doors closing followed by hurried footsteps make him turn around: it’s the gaoler, coming back from the palace doors. According to him, the guards didn’t see anyone leaving the palace and they’re closing all the doors before joining them. Gesturing as much as he’s talking, the gaoler adds that he needs to warn the Archon so that he stays safely inside his rooms, in the upper story of the palace. Without waiting for Sandor’s answer, the old man scurries to the main staircase leading to the Archon’s apartments.

Sandor’s fingers close on the wooden shaft of the spear as he scans his surroundings; the hallway he’s in doesn’t provide any place to hide. The door of the Hall of Guards now behind him, he progresses towards the largest room of the first floor, where the subjects of the Archon wait for the public audience to start. The waiting room is empty in the afternoon and the audience room as well. He’s by the Archon’s throne when the two guards from the entrance doors arrive. A couple of words are exchanged between them and they decide to resume their search on the second floor, where the Archon works and consults with his advisers.

An eerie silence wraps the second floor. Standing still on the landing, the three men look around them. On their left, a corridor with several doors which seem to hide small, narrow rooms; on the right side, there are only a couple of doors  with bigger rooms to search. One of the guards alternatively points at the corridor on the left and at his chest. Wiping his forehead, Sandor lets him go while he and the other guard, a youth sweating profusely under his helmet, make a right. _If he’s somewhere nearby, the bastard can’t escape unless he’s able to jump from the windows without breaking his neck,_ he muses. _We’ll find him._ Behind him the young guard breathes heavily and if his Valyrian was any better, he’d tell him to calm down.

_Stay focused._ Sandor kicks open the door of a vast room with maps hanging on every wall: empty, save for two of the Archon’s advisers, looking puzzled behind their dyed mustache. The guard exhales deeply. _Bloody Tyroshi! What’s the Valyrian for-_

A cry and a thud coming from behind force them to rush towards the place where they left the other guard. A silhouette with a mop of blond hair bolts from the corridor and hurtles down the stairs. _Seven Hells!_ Sandor follows him, sprinting, the young guard in tow. His old reflexes come back, and with them the excitement of the hunt. Nothing exists around him except the blond man ahead of him - a prey, more than an opponent.

The man is a fast runner and the spear Sandor carries somewhat hinders his movements; he drops it at the foot of the stairs, then, cursing the old wound in his thigh, he speeds up. The prisoner is now clearly heading to the entrance of the palace. _If the doors are closed, he’ll try to jump through a window. And if he manages to escape..._ Making one last-ditch effort, Sandor tackles the fugitive to the ground. The man lets out a scream when hitting the floor. _It’s over. All this madness is over._ He doesn’t move for now though, convinced the blond man would escape again, if given a chance.

The young guard’s sandals come into his field of vision and he hears him panting. “Hubon!” the guard calls, trying to catch his breath. “Hubon!”

_The Hell if I know who he’s calling._ There’s nothing he’d like more than to squeeze the life out of the man sprawled on the marble tiles, but the little bird will have questions to ask the blond man. _And Girri, what would she want, for the man who murdered her?_ Sandor carefully picks himself up, keeping a foot on the man’s back. _Just to be sure. Girri wouldn’t want me to let him go._

“Hubon,” the guard repeats, pointing at the old gaoler who hurries towards them, carrying a long piece of rope. He mimicks someone whose wrists are bound. “Naejot letagon se Vesterozia.” _To tie the Westerosi_.

Sandor then remembers _‘hubon’_ is the Valyrian for rope. _Rope is indeed all this little shit deserves._

* * *

Lilio’s head lolls forward, brushing the front of Sandor’s tunic. The boy is asleep in his arms and as they walk back to Collio Cletis’ mansion, he does his best not to disturb the boy’s sleep, restraining himself from touching his sleep-matted hair. Xulah leads the way and Sansa walks next to Sandor, glancing at him from time to time. _We’ll talk, once we’re at Cletis’,_ he tells himself. _We probably need to talk._

After he caught the blond man, he got to question him in front of the Archon, the captain of the guards and Sansa. The man confessed he and his accomplice had been hired by the Freys, with the agreement of the Boltons, to murder the heir of House Stark and Tully. They had been travelling from one free city to another for about seven moons when they arrived in Tyrosh and started to ask questions about a red-haired noblewoman from Westeros.

With his accomplice, he threatened Girri in the hopes she would reveal where Sansa was and when she’d be back. The old woman spit in his companion’s face, refusing to say a word. She then tried to stab his companion and the blond man slit her throat in retaliation. They fled, despite his accomplice’s wound, and they hid in a tavern near the harbor. Their visit to the barber surgeon, the next day, was a disaster. The barber said his companion had very few chances to survive, given all the blood he had already lost and when he started asking questions as to what had happened, the blond man killed him.

A couple of hours later, his accomplice died in the tavern where they were staying while the blond man was having a conversation with a Westerosi seaman. It was this exchange which inspired the lies the blond man told Sandor. By sending the guards on a false lead in the streets of Tyrosh, he hoped he could escape more easily - and he almost succeeded, knocking out the gaoler and wounding the guard he attacked by surprise on the second floor.

At no time did he seem to repent his acts. The Freys had chosen him because he had been proved guilty of looting and murder in Pinkmaiden; they had given him a mission and a purse heavy with golden dragons and that was that. He reported regularly to the Freys but his last message to them - to extort more gold - remained unanswered. At this point Sandor noticed a change on Sansa’s features. Is it possible that her enemies, once determined to get rid of _all_ the Starks and the Tullys, are facing so many difficulties they don’t care if she lives or dies?

The Archon remained silent during the blond man’s confession, only nodding from time to time when Sansa translated for him the man’s words. In the end, the Archon simply told the captain of the guards to fetch the executioner - and his axe.

What happened _after_ was a bit blurred. He remembers his relief at seeing Sansa and Xulah in the waiting room of the palace. Lilio was already asleep on a marble bench, probably exhausted by the events of the day. He remembers how the sight of his peaceful little face framed by dark curls did _something_ to him. _Waking him would break my heart - if I had a heart, that is._

Now, as they walk in single file in a narrow street, Sandor stares at the red locks escaping Sansa’s veil. How long will they stay in Tyrosh, relying on Cletis’ generosity and on the Archon’s protection? When will Sansa sail back to Westeros? His chest constricts.

There was a time when her return to Winterfell seemed a distant prospect, but those days are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athamas Sand will be back in the next chapter.  
> If you enjoyed this, let me know!


	17. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is _one story_ , a story he never tells, a story buried in the deep recess of his mind. Fools say a lot of shit about memories, but sometimes trying to forget is best.
> 
> He nevertheless starts telling her, unsure of where this is going, pausing when he doesn’t find the proper words to voice out what happened _then_ , in Clegane’s Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who deserves a round of applause for editing this chapter? LadyCyprus, of course!
> 
> Warning for child death.
> 
> Before reading the first scene of this chapter, please keep in mind that this is only my version of Sandor and that his stay in the Quiet Isle might not make him a carebear and a likeable character. The fact he has too much pride doesn’t mean he’s not madly in love with Sansa.  
> As a reader, I remember the update of a fic starting with warnings that basically promised blood, sweat and tears, and said we’d all end up crying like babies or having a heart-attack (or both). And you know what? Nothing big happened, so I promised myself I would always try to use warnings for my readers’ safety but without exaggerating the effects a story might have on them, because it’s just a story. Promising the end of the world to get more readers? Nope.  
> Sorry for the rant. There’s one scene in this update that made me cry when I wrote it; maybe you won’t cry at all or maybe you’ll find there’s nothing special in it because we’re all different. That being said, if you easily cry when reading, perhaps it’s better not to read this at work but when you’re home, with no one around. You can always tell me in the comment section if this warning was useful or not.

A fever, sudden and unforeseeable, has taken hold of the little bird the evening after Girri’s murderer was sentenced to death; it’s not the kind of fever one can lower with a cool washcloth on the forehead and sage tea though. He sees it in her eyes as she tears her clothes off, looking intently at him.

When they came back from the Archon’s palace, Sandor climbed the stairs to wash his face and change his clothes before dinner. He thought he’d find her later in the room that overlooks Cletis’ garden and that is now both their solar and their dining room. The place where Sansa spends most of her time. _Well,_ _when she’s not discussing the future of the North with Cletis or with the Archon._ Sandor didn’t have time to linger over bitter thoughts: she snuck in his small room and now she’s here, silent, boring into his eyes, stepping out of the silk gown that just pooled at her feet.

Sansa inches forward and takes his hand, placing it on her naked breast. Her nipple is hard under his palm and his cock twitches. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed; she tilts her head to the side, her blue eyes widening in surprise. _Why do you hesitate?_

Didn’t she see his astonishment and his displeasure when she decided for him, forcing a seasoned warrior to question prisoners instead of doing what he was trained for? Did she forget this already? Standing on tip-toe, she kisses his lips; he barely responds to her kiss and lowers himself to his knees. Ignoring the look of astonishment on her face, he let his eyes wander on her hips and lower belly. Are these goosebumps on the skin of her thigh? His fingers brush her pale skin, hover over the red curls and finally reach behind to lift her buttock and swing one of her legs over his shoulder. One arm under her propped thigh prevents her from tripping. _Her smell…_ A gasp welcomes the first flick of his tongue _there_.

The taste of cumin on his tongue, again... Intoxicated, he could almost forget what he has in mind. He reluctantly stops and looks up at her. “Isn’t this what my lady wants? A man on his knees for her, pandering to her every whim, letting her _decide_ for him?”

This is when she understands: her eyes narrow and she tries to disentangle herself - unsuccessfully, as he holds her tight.

“I didn’t-”

His fingers press the soft flesh of her buttocks. “You did decide for me,” he spits. “You could have asked my opinion but you didn’t.”

She sighs, briefly closing her eyes then placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s talk about this, shall we?”

This time, he doesn’t resist when she breaks their strange embrace then picks up her gown before slipping into it.

“You know why I asked the Archon to let you question the prisoners.” She sits on the edge of the bed, tosses her hair over one shoulder. “When Xulah and the Volantene came back that night, saying you had been arrested, I panicked. I swore to myself I’d do everything I could to keep you safe once you’d be free. I couldn’t risk to lose you after losing Girri.” For a second, her eyes drift to the window. “Of course you hated my idea. The second I met your eyes after the Archon accepted my request, I realized you didn’t like it.”

_Say it._ He opens his mouth yet no sound comes out: words seem to be caught in his throat. Nails dig deep in his palms before he finally says:“You humiliated me.”

How many times has he been humiliated without voicing what he felt? Insults and punches were more acceptable than words back then. They were the only option, really. _You humiliated me._ As the words echo in his head, he realizes it feels new, and bloody embarrassing to talk instead of yelling and hitting. Somehow it would be less intimidating to be naked as his Nameday in front of strangers than to say this and to feel her gaze on him. Maybe it feels new for her too, because tears seem to well up in her eyes.

“It sounded like a good idea,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I wanted you safe. When one of us makes decisions alone, it always hurts the other.”

_True._ He made decisions for her and he hurt her too. _Our arrangement, for instance, hurt her._ A silence falls upon them and for long seconds he stays still, wondering what to do. Sansa wipes her cheeks quietly and beckons him to sit beside her. The mattress depresses beneath him and Sansa’s hands take his. Just a light squeeze and the words that are sometimes the hardest words to utter: “I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” he says in echo.

She leans against his upper arm. “Can I stay here tonight?”

He nods. “You know you can.”

* * *

Although he has found them oddly high and unwelcoming at first, the high walls around Collio Cletis’ mansion now assuage his fears whenever he leaves for the day with his employer and the other sellswords. Nothing can happen to the little bird now that she’s inside this big house. She can spend time in the gardens, reading books about the Free Cities she borrows from Cletis’ library; she can perfect her Valyrian with young Lilio - unless it is the other way around and she’s teaching the boy the Common Tongue. A new routine, not unpleasant, just unlike the old one.

The suns rises and sets a couple of times before Athamas Sand finds his way to the merchant’s house. An amber colored light wraps the garden when the old male servant shouts across to Sandor, asking if he knows the Westerosi  standing in the doorframe. Despite Sandor’s reassuring words, the servant glares at the Dornishman as he steps inside, fiddling with his worn-out hat.

A leather jerkin so old its surface seems polished, hides most of Sand’s tattered tunic; no cobbler, zealous as he may be, would dare to repair his boots.

“So you found me?” Sandor offers in lieu of greeting.

Athamas Sand observes the opulent decor of the gardens and the house behind his fellow countryman and he lets out, appreciative: “I guess that after the Red Keep, the Hound has high standards... so he found himself a nice kennel.” Sandor’s eyes narrow at that; the Dornishman lifts his hands, dirty palms facing his interlocutor in a soothing gesture.

“I found it for Lady Stark.” His fingers, clenched only seconds ago, slowly uncurled as anger subsides.

“What wouldn’t you do for Lady Stark, huh?” Anyone else in this shitty harbor city would smirk at him and revel in his embarrassment while uttering this truth; not Athamas. The Dornishman smiles but his eyes convey something entirely different. Sadness or even compassion. _He knows. The others know, too… Yet the bloody Southerner_ sees me _. Unlike them all, he sees that I’m struggling with what I feel for her, and that I’ll lose, whatever I decide._

“How is Lady Stark, by the way?”

“The outcome relieved her. She’s doing fine.” He pauses, trying to push back to the deepest recesses of his mind the swishing sound of the axe that cut the killer’s head. Then he clears his throat before asking: “How did you find out that this man was the murderer, that he lied to me?”

Athamas juts his chin, the very image of the arrogant Dornishman. “I tried to warn you.” Bitterness laces his words. “I knew he was lying from the moment you took him back to his cell.”

_How the hell did you know?_

Does Athamas like to play with people’s nerves? He pauses, seemingly reluctant to give away too much too soon. “I heard your conversation with the man,” he says. “You said he claimed he had been arrested the night before. Except I saw the guards shoving him down the gaols’ corridor hours later, at dawn.”

“How come I didn’t see him when he was taken to the cells?”

The Dornishman shrugs. “You were snoring, Sandor Clegane of the Westerlands.”

_Now it makes sense._ As Sandor’s eyes fall to the dusty ground, he replays in his head the somber events of that day. _I should have listened to him._ “If only…” he begins.

Athamas shakes his head. “My mother used to say that only fools try to rebuild a cliff after the rock slide. Living in the past is pointless, my friend.” A silence falls upon them and in the meanwhile the Dornishman’s eyes drift to the fountain adorning the garden. “I for one will not live in the past. I’m done sailing.”

“What will you do?”

A smile graces his face. “This city might be more welcoming than I first thought. There’s this tavern, a little further from the harbor. The innkeeper needed help and hired me.”

“He hired a Dornish sailor in a city where people would gladly take part in a manhunt, should the target be a Westerosi? This man is a fool.”

“ _She_ is wiser than you think, Clegane.”

“Oh. Very well. Finding employment under the covers is fine, I suppose.”

Sand laughs at that. “I will see you at the tavern, then. It’s called _‘Qeldlie Jaos’._ You can’t forget it.” Shaking his head again, the Dornishman walks backwards to the heavy door, observing with amusement Sandor’s puzzled features as he translates the name of the tavern.

“‘Yellow dog’?” he finally exclaims.

“Exactly, my friend. The sign shows a yellow dog with bared teeth.”

* * *

Is it still an arrangement or just the way they spend their nights? She’s in his bed again tonight, panting almost as heavily as he does after he takes her. They’re both lying on the mattress, staring at the shadows the candles cast on the walls. Slowly the sensation in his loins vanishes and his breath returns to normal; it’s this time of the night when he asks her what she wants him to do to her. _Or for her. Sometimes she surprises me._

They never discuss the usefulness of this ritual: it just is, and Sandor finds himself happy with it. Sansa doesn’t seem like she wants to get rid of it either.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he rasps.

She takes a deep breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling, then turns her head slightly to look at his gargoyle’s face. “Tell me a story.”

_What the fuck?_

As if she could see how her request wrecks havoc in his mind, she explains: “Tell me a story about you. You know my story. You know what happened to me in King’s Landing, I told you in what circumstances I left the capital and what Littlefinger had in store for me in the Vale but there are so many things I don’t know about you, about your childhood. A long time ago you told me the story of your scars, as if it encompassed all the things that happened to you but... your story is more than just scars.”

She’s lying on her side now, her pale hand wandering on his chest. Her words take him back to the aftermath of the Tourney of the Hand when his leather purse was heavy with gold and his belly full of wine. He remembers the elation and the little shit’s orders to take his betrothed back to her apartments. She was pretty, too pretty for her own good and he realized it that night when he told her a story he had kept a secret for so long.

“Sandor. Please.” Her words almost make him twitch on the soft mattress.

There is _one story_ , a story he never tells, a story buried in the deep recess of his mind. Fools say a lot of shit about memories, but sometimes trying to forget is best.

He nevertheless starts telling her, unsure of where _this_ is going, pausing when he doesn’t find the proper words to voice out what happened _then_ , in Clegane’s Keep.

He had a sister, a dark-haired, gray-eyed little thing who was annoying - aren’t all little sisters annoying? She always followed him in the woods or down to the pond instead of staying inside like girls are supposed to. With a glint of pride in her otherwise sad eyes, their mother used to call her daughter _wild_ , and wild she was, with the constantly frayed edges of her skirts and the grime under her pink fingernails.

His sister loved animals and the Seven, if they exist, know that was a problem with Gregor. She once brought back a stray cat and fed him scraps - breadcrumbs ‘borrowed’ from the kitchens. She decided it was the sweetest creature in the whole world and she told Sandor and the servants the cat would now follow her wherever she went. Gregor wasn’t far from home, however, and there was only one thing to do, Sandor knew it. He saddled up a horse and rode away, taking the cat with him and dropping the animal miles away from Clegane’s Keep. It was either this or watch his sister cry over the bloody corpse of her cat once Gregor got home. She couldn’t have something that was her own and that made her happy, Gregor wouldn’t allow it. Did she know what Sandor had done to protect the cat - and to protect her? She never said but he remembers vividly how she cried when she thought nobody was watching and how her gray eyes bored into his, as if she suspected something.

More than once when someone in the keep was in trouble with Gregor, the little one took it on herself to divert his attention. She thought her provocations could save the servant who had displeased the young master from another beating. She assumed her sharp tongue could give Sandor a respite when their older brother beat the hell out of him, but that Gregor would never go further than a slap or a pinch because she was only a little girl.

It did save the stable boy once and it prevented Sandor from receiving more blows a couple of times. She grew confident: he saw it, he feared the consequences and told her not to push her luck.

She didn’t listen.

Twenty years have passed and he doesn’t remember how most of these fights started, and really, it doesn’t matter because Gregor’s fits of anger originated from anything, causing the household to remain as quiet and as inconspicuous as possible when he was around. He just remembers that Gregor had asked him to fetch some water from the well, as if he was a servant - the stable boy, scared to death, had fled. Sandor had refused, well-aware of what it meant. His ten-year old self had decided he wouldn’t pander to his brother’s every whim. He had been practicing wrestling lately and in any case, it was worth some bruises.

That day again their sister interposed, despite his protestations. Gregor’s violence was the cause of the stable boy’s hasty departure, she said. He thus should go fetch some water himself. If he could bend over the edge and see his reflection in the water maybe he’d understand why the servants always ended up running away. At this point, Sandor was lying on the ground, nose bleeding. Gregor’s boot had kissed his back enough times to leave fresh marks before the old bruises turned to yellow. He nonetheless shouted to his sister to shut up, to go away.

The relief he felt when the blows stopped was short-lived. Eyes closed for a second, he rolled over, grunted and sat up. Gregor wasn’t threatening the little girl, like he used to; he had grabbed the little one by the neck and he was lifting her until her toes graced the dirt without touching it. The second he had laid hands on her, the look of self-confidence on her face had vanished. Gregor must enjoy what he saw then, for he laughed. Utter panic in his victims’ eyes was something he couldn’t resist. His cruelty fed on it. The little one silently begged him to let her go; Sandor gathered his courage and jumped on his brother’s back. When he hit the ground again he understood what was going to happen and shouted for help.

Did someone come? He doesn’t remember but he’ll never forget the massive silhouette of Gregor heading to the well, still holding the flailing  little girl. “So if I watched my reflection in the water, I’d bloody understand why the servants all leave?” Gregor said. “ _You_ should bend over the edge and have a look at yourself.” He pressed her little body against the cold stone of the edge and she shrieked.

Deep down Sandor still hoped he would let go of the girl after scaring the shit out of her. Beating the servants and his own brother was one thing. Hurting a girl who could hardly write her name was beyond belief.

He was wrong.

Gregor laughed again, as he pushed her over the edge. She screeched again and it was over. For some reason he thought the cry of someone falling in a well was a long, terrible thing and the way it had happened was wrong. The little girl wasn’t moving anymore when he glanced inside the well. There was blood on her temple and in the water and that was all.

With the stable boy gone, no one in the keep was small enough to get down in the well and retrieve the corpse, except Sandor. He would have volunteered anyway, determined not to let anyone between his guilt and himself. As the cook helped his father pulling the little girl out of the well, thanks to a rope Sandor had tied around her waist, Sandor stayed in the water, imagining himself in his sister’s place. It would have been better indeed; the Gods should have let her live, of that he was sure. Would his parents mourn him, if he had been killed that day? He buried the thought away, craning his neck to see his father finally holding the little one in his arms.

His throat is dry from talking so much and he doesn’t dare turn his head towards Sansa. She has inched herself against his shoulder and now she’s crying softly.

“I loved her,” he said on an impulse. “Never got the courage to tell her but I bloody loved her.”

“You didn’t need to say anything. She knew,” Sansa replies.

_Does she mean it?_ He forgets his embarrassment, his uneasiness, he gives her a good look and decides that she means it. The kiss she places on his scars is almost shy, as if she feared to ruin the moment.

“Once you’re in Winterfell,” he begins after a silence, “mayhap you should send people to find your sister. She’s still alive. There’s still time for you two to be together.” 

* * *

The next days are so busy he has barely any time to spend with Sansa. The Others take him if he doesn’t notice her faraway look or her silences though. One night, during supper, he puts his fatigue aside and finds the courage to ask what’s bothering her.

Dainty as ever, Sansa puts down her cup of wine, wipes her mouth and says: “I have a decision to make. And now the Archon wishes to have dinner with us. A messenger came from the palace while you were out.”

He snorts. “Of course. The old man invites you-”

“ _Us_. He invites us, Sandor. He says he received good news from the North. From White Harbor, to be more precise. Here in Tyrosh, rumor has it that House Manderly revolted against the Boltons but I wanted to know more before-”

“Good news,” he repeats, somber. _Good news for you could be not so good for us._

She gets on her feet and reaches for his hand over the table. “I know what you said about not going back to Westeros and to the North but hear me out-”

Her lips keep moving but he doesn’t listen to whatever she’s talking about. His head throbbing, he gives her a blank stare. So pretty, so close... so far away already. _Save your breath, girl. Your arguments are lost on me._

A light squeeze on his forearm and she sits down again. “... so will you come with me to meet the Archon the day after tomorrow?”

Determined not to alarm her, he nods. Then, after a silence, he asks her: “What is the decision you were talking about?” As she frowns, he feels compelled to explain himself. “This decision you have to make. You mentioned it right before telling me about the Archon.”

“Oh.” She takes a deep breath before replying: “Shall I write to Lord Wyman Manderly at once and let him know I’m here, or shall I wait until we know more about his rebellion? Whatever the Archon heard about this will help me decide.”

_But the Archon said he had good news so…_ Does she notice the sudden change in him, the defeated chuckle that escapes his lips? _I told you so, Dog._ She goes silent and her features harden.

“Make no mistake: I’m not one to give up,” she warns him.

And suddenly he knows she’s not talking about the bloody North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
